


Enemy of my Enemy (Part 1)

by Embleer_Frith0323



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice (Comics)
Genre: Cancer Arc, Caretaking, Faeries Made Them Do It, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Faustian Bargain, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Illnesses, Sidhe, Terminal Illnesses, Unseelie Court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embleer_Frith0323/pseuds/Embleer_Frith0323
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faced with a life-or-death situation, Batman, finding himself out of options, enlists the aid of the Sidhe for assistance through a potentially world-altering bargain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enemy of my Enemy (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daisymagick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisymagick/gifts).



> This is the first part of a (three)-part fan fiction. (I am too dumb/unversed in this site as yet to figure out how to work the series option, lol.) 
> 
> First of all--I have taken greeeeeaaaaat pains to ensure that all of this is as medically accurate as possible, BUT! I have taken some liberties for the sake of the universe this is set in, and applied some limitations for the sake of the story itself.  
> Second of all--This started as more of a writing exercise; also as a way of working through some personal trials. I had a friend read it, and decided to man up and share it further. :-)  
> Third of all--It's long. Sorry! ^_^ I decided against breaking it up into chapters and went with a more novella-esque style.
> 
> And finally... I hope that you enjoy it, and it's not an insufferable read. :-)
> 
> (I also seriously misunderstood/misread categories... Whoops... thought F/F meant Fan Fiction... ah ha ha ha... remedied...) xD
> 
> (Also, all three parts will have undergone a few minor edits as of 1/2/15.)

I’ve always believed that such emotions as anger, hatred, vengefulness, jealousy, powerlust, and so on to be some of the most destructive forces in the universe. I’m a bit on the older side now, and have always adhered to these tenets, as grumpy old men have a tendency to do. However, I may have to realize that, for all this time, and in all of my experiences supporting my staunch and hidebound beliefs, I may have been sorely wrong.

Love is an emotion also among the most dangerous and destructive forces in the universe. 

I’ve born witness to countless evil deeds in my years, each one more diabolical and stomach-turning than the next in their wickedness, and have, as such, always figured them to be born of those same dark, visceral, unfavorable emotions aforementioned. Equally, I’ve eternally believed that they would be the root of my undoing, with quite as much inevitability as the fabled death and taxes. One would think I’d have learned from watching Mr. Freeze for all this time.

And right now, I feel that I am treading the same path as my enemy. Had I not loved so fiercely and so completely, I would not be here now, standing with Zatanna in the middle of a toadstool ring at the base of a hawthorn tree. 

I can guess pretty comfortably at what you’re thinking—hawthorn tree, toadstool ring. Fairies. 

I’ll say you’re getting warm, but odds are that you’re not quite warm enough. 

Whether or not your thought distance is warm, the moors are cold and dank, whipped violently with damp winds and a gray mist of rain. _Hardly anything compared to what we’re about to encounter_ , I remind myself, rolling my shoulders against the cold. Even the insulated suit can’t fully keep the chill out of the dreary air. It’s hard to believe that back in Gotham, the weather is hot and muggy, the temperature well over one hundred degrees. One of the longest heat waves on record is, apparently, vying for the top spot. 

“You sure you’re still willing to go through with this?” Zatanna asks, breaking into my thoughts. 

“Aren’t you?” I give her a look out of the corner of my eye. 

She gazes at me, pausing in her motions, and her face darkens. She focuses with renewed intensity on the toadstool at her feet. 

“Yes,” she says, her voice low, somber. “I’m sure.”

“Remember. This is between you and me only.”

“I know.” She looks up at me, her face a white, ovular blur in the mist and darkness. “Look. I’m in. But I need to be sure you are. This could really cost you everything. And me, too, just by helping you.”

“That’s all relative. We’re already being cost everything—you, me, Oracle, Robin, and, arguably, the entire team. Let’s not forget why we’re here.”

She nods. “Absolutely. Time to work. Remember, though, we’re not dealing with Titania anymore—and once I cast this spell, there’s no going back. Winter is a lot less forgiving than Summer.”

“So the storybooks say.”

Her eyes close, and she spreads her hands, palms up, framing the toadstool at the base of the hawthorn’s thick trunk. 

“Etioer Hmalat A Oes Sarod Na Tliacso A!”

 _A oscailt an doras seo a Talamh Reoite,_ I mentally translate.

Open this door to Talamh Reoite _._

Talamh Reoite roughly means “Frozen Land,” and I’m fairly confident that the Good Folk (the very same people that we’ve been seeking in recent hours) allowed it to be called as much to benefit the Celts who came into contact with them. Sidhe language is, obviously, very different than Gaelic and exceptionally complicated to learn for us lowly humans, or as they call us, Tire Breoite, or the “folk that sickens.” 

Again, rough Gaelic. Not sure what it sounds like in the Sidhe tongue. Scary and rude, most likely. The Good Folk, although reasonably benevolent in nature, aren’t wild about rubbing elbows with humans. Commonly another term they use upon us is “Bumblers.”

I keep an eye on Zatanna as she continues to chant, her hands spread with their fingers curled slightly. An eerie light pulsates from her extended palms, pours from its bright, orbic center, and languidly trails to encircle us in a ring of muted blue. It sparks, much as a fire spits, and gaily dances over the spongy, domed heads of the toadstools, as though skipping Ring-Around-A-Rosie about where we stand. The magical, happily bouncing luminescence fails to irradiate the dismal, gray-scale night around us, seemingly trapped within smoked glass. The strange not-light rises to reach over the branches of the hawthorn tree, reflecting a pale, disquieting hue of cobalt onto its twisted, knobby branches. Zatanna raises her arms, and a blast of wind strikes me straight in the face, setting my cape to fluttering behind me. It becomes impossibly colder as the blue light forms an oblong rift in the landscape. Lying beyond is the frozen wasteland that is Talamh Reoite. 

I stuff every feeling that threatens to surface somewhere deep into the recesses of my brain, heart and gut, sitting hard on each one. Zatanna and I are taking a lot of risks in this private mission. _Covert op, more like,_ I remind myself. Although, yes, the Sidhe generally are considered to be good in nature, that doesn’t mean they’re all sweet and fuzzy, like so many illustrations and tattoos insistently depict. Occasionally they have been known to become angered by mortals, and frequently accept bargains as defrayal and appeasement, which is a Bumbler’s best hope to avoid utter obliteration.

Obliteration might seem a nice alternative, though, to some, because often, the Good Folk’s favored payment is none other than a first-born child. I’m really hoping that won’t mean Dick in my case, by technicality. 

_Even so,_ I tell myself, _it’s probably better he’s given over to live the healthy, undiseased life of a Changeling than the horror that he is now, so if he has to be forked over as a bargaining chip, well…_

I stop myself there. If my thoughts continue in this direction, I might experience some pause, and while I’m at it, decide that maybe I ought to beseech the Queen of Air and Darkness for the recovery of Barbara’s mobility, given that she lost it to a crime. That being said, however, I can ask the Queen only one favor, or risk angering the darkest and most powerful of the Sidhe. 

Which is partly why I have brought Zatanna along—she has a vested interest in this endeavor, and not only did I require her skills to open the portal to Talamh Reoite, I may require her magical abilities to provide a fast exit from the dangerous land of what is effectively fairy prison, should we anger Mab at any point. 

Just earlier today, Zatanna opened the portal to the High Court of the Sidhe, and it was inside that I, alone, addressed Titania and Oberon, the reigning King and Queen of the Good Folk. It was a bit of a nightmarish situation, given that I arrived unannounced and uninvited, and worse yet, as the Batman. They are largely suspicious of those that attempt to hide themselves behind facades or guises, and bats are regarded in much the same fashion as are the crows and black cats of our world—omens of misfortune or even of death. After receiving a faceful of spears and swords, I explained myself, and brought to them the nature of my plight, as well as the history of the mask of the bat. 

As Titania and Oberon listened, I saw the Queen’s expression begin to soften, and the swords and spears finally were lowered. I spent a moment wondering if perhaps my quest would be successful.

Instead, I was met with crushing disappointment. 

“Young mortal,” Titania stated, her voice quite as resonant and melodious as the richest musical instrument, “I understand the pain that you experience, and, as parents equally by blood and by bond ourselves, my King and I both sympathize with your unfortunate circumstances. Be that as it may, you must recall that such a regrettable lot as that which you have described frequently befalls those of the Bumbling Folk, and that in the case of the one on whose behalf you wish to intercede, it is not a punishment, but a result of heroism and selflessness, for which he will be richly rewarded once his suffering draws to its end. Such agony as you have described is but a passing shift into what is a far kinder fate than you realize, young one.”

“This young man does _not_ deserve the suffering he’s been dealt, Queen Titania,” I said, striving to remain calm, “no matter what that next place has to offer him. No one deserves it.”

“And yet the number of those who suffer this misfortune is well into the millions, mortal,” Titania said matter-of-factly, her beautiful, golden face a lantern of glowing disapproval. “What renders this one youth of whom you speak worthier than another to receive healing? If I am to restore one, I must restore the remaining millions that also suffer. _That_ is only fair.” 

“I am prepared and willing to offer you a service to repay you for such an extraordinary deed, my lady,” I said through gritted teeth. “I will perform any service you wish of me, provide you any item or artifact, even offer you my own life in servitude.”

“I have no interest in one who dons the mantle of the bat,” she replied, “and I require no artifact or service from such a creature. It would do you well to bear in mind that death is grim only for the wicked and for those who live on beyond their loved ones. Celebrate this young man’s virtues and accept his destiny. That is my final word. Farewell to you, one who calls himself the Batman.”

I had half a mind to argue Titania’s decision further right about then and risk angering the Court, but I had not come to the Sidhe with the intention of challenging them. Given that the Good Folk are generally regarded as a reasonable and non-violent people, I had hoped that I would be met with a a successful exchange of services. Lore largely dictates that the Sidhe have a flair for bargaining and vastly enjoy a good bit of tit for tat. I was left flattened by the Queen’s refusal to provide me what I asked, especially in light of the fact that I’d have merrily given over my entire life to her if it only meant the ends I sought. Equally, and especially without Zatanna in tow, I would be overpowered in moments. Scarcely a tool exists in the universe that can render the playing field equal between the Sidhe and mortals. 

As I walked toward the shimmering veil of light that was the portal to the mortal realm, Queen Titania called to me to halt.

I turned, and took in her strange appearance as she approached me. The belief that fairies (or more appropriately—faeries) are like Tinkerbell, tiny spots of flitting light that upon closer look turn out to be humanoid in nature, is a wide misconception. It isn’t to say that tiny fairies like Tinkerbell don’t exist, but the Fae, while related, are quite different from the Sidhe. To give you some idea, Titania is a head and shoulders taller than I am, with glimmering hair of the deep, dark gold of buckwheat honey, that flows to the ground and trails behind her, much like the train of a wedding gown. Her skin, reminiscent of freshly steeped Assam tea, is some shades darker than her hair, and glows with a pearly, golden opulescence, a clear reminder to those who look on her that she is not human. Her eyes are as green as a forest in summer, dappled also with gold, and she habitually is adorned in varying manners of green, from palest sage to deepest emerald. She seems quite as warm and inviting as an afternoon in May, as sweet and cheerful as a daisy-flecked, grassy meadow, but somehow as volatile and foreboding as a volcano, as moody and brooding as the surface of a lake in the darkest night, all at the same time. 

Staring at her, then, I thought to myself that I would rather have gone toe-to-toe with Darkseid or Mongol, than even risk angering her.

“Listen to me, young mortal, who calls himself the Batman,” she said, her stance straight and unwelcoming. “I have provided you my answer. That is not to say that I am unmoved by your pain and that you are left without recourse. Possibly you may find more success should you implore my sister Mab for assistance. Be wary, however. She is quite dangerous and will not hesitate to present to you a bargain that will be rife with hidden meanings—any and all of which could very well destroy you and your own, proving your quest to be for naught.” 

“I thank you for your time and audience, Queen Titania,” I said, inclining my head to her. “I will take this under advisement.”

“Do take care,” she said, touching her lips to her fingers, and then resting their tips briefly on my forehead. “Bruce Wayne.”

I nodded, then turned to step through the now wide-open portal to return to the mortal world. 

Zatanna’s face fell when I informed her of Titania’s decision, but she seemed a little heartened when I told her that we might yet find hope in Mab. 

The court of the Sidhe, for as intimidating as it might have been, was downright homey compared to the icy, barren plains upon which we are now, watching the opening to the mortal world close behind us with a frightful finality. We steel ourselves against the hideous cold of Talamh Reoite, and turn to each other.

“So what now?” Zatanna asks, her breath condensing into silvery puffs on the air, so cold that it feels frozen solid. “Do you have any idea of how to find our Queen Mab?” 

“Not a clear one,” I admit. “It’s been said that she resides in a giant ice palace that cannot be found by mere mortals. Rather, the palace is said to be a living entity, controlled by Mab herself, and that it finds those unlucky wanderers who have stumbled into these lands, either to provide them a means to find their way home, or to consume them.”

“Perfect.”

“Well, Mab, according to what I’ve read, was banished here years ago when she committed treason against the court of the Sidhe by the misuse of her unusual magical talents. She is said to be shrewd, wicked, manipulative, and self-serving… but not fully evil or heartless.”

“Can she be considered to be, maybe… an anti-hero? Like a good guy who occasionally does bad things?”

“That sounds like a fair assessment, but she’s a little more dangerous than that." I quelled an instinctive shiver that was not brought on by the chill alone. "We’d better get moving. Talamh Reoite is the dimension to which Fae and Sidhe criminals are banished. Encountering one will cost more time than we can spare. Not to mention possibly ensure that we die here and no one will ever know what happened to us.”

“Can’t have that. _Lleps liev!”_

“Good work,” I say, having deduced that she just provided us a cloaking spell. “Let’s walk. If the stories are true, the palace will find us if we keep at it long enough. We should try to lie as low as possible, but stay away from the trees. Some Dryads have also been exiled here.” 

She nods, and we set to, pushing our way through the deep drifts of snow, perpetually buffeted by violent winds. We walk in silence, both absorbed in our own thoughts, occasionally sniffling and swiping our noses. I can guess at what she’s thinking, probably the same thing I am. 

How did it all come to this, and go so wrong so fast? 

It’s a question I’ve been dwelling on for some months at this point, but I guess it was the incident just after Valentine’s Day that truly brought us to where we are now.

We had been, for some time, in a Cold War-esque situation with our enemy the Light, who, not long after our triumph over the Reach, formed a partnership with Darkseid, of the race of the gods of Anti-Life. Although the truth behind the events remains a mystery, it’s my suspicion that the monster Psimon was gifted a Glamour Charm by chaos incarnate Klarion, who embedded the jewel into a ring on Psimon’s right thumb. With this charm, Psimon donned the guise of Dr. Fate, crafting a reasonable facsimile of Zatara behind the illusory helmet, and worked slowly to infiltrate the Justice League and much of Young Justice, with the real Dr. Fate comatose and imprisoned. According to Zatanna, the sorcery required to specify a shape within a Glamour Charm is significant and formidable. The fact that none of us was even aware of the happenings, slowly and insidiously subjected to mental insinuations, manipulation and mind control, nearly resulted in the loss of the entire League—and of the Young Justice team, as well. 

We were, over the span of mere days, disabled, shackled, and incarcerated upon the planet Apokalips to await torment and experimentation at the hands of Darkseid’s god-scientists, who sought to provide him with an impenetrable army that would enable him to take the entirety of the universe’s populated worlds by force in less than an earthly decade. This facet of Darkseid’s plan would reveal, at least to the League, the fact that he never had a single intention of remaining loyal to the Light, and that he would not share power.

It was a strange twist of fate that Dick, who had long been on hiatus after the death of Wally West, would take it upon himself and his newly-acquired protégé to track down and free the imprisoned League. 

Deathstroke had approached Dick in months previous, imploring him to train his daughter, Rose. Apparently, there was a reasonable source somewhere that informed Deathstroke of Nightwing’s civilian identity. Dick had been hesitant at first, believing it to be a ploy, some sort of undercover espionage effort on behalf of the Light. Eventually, he agreed, although why I can’t be sure, and he took Rose, or Ravager as she called herself, under his wing to train her in martial arts and field work.

Beyond Deathstroke’s knowledge, Dick also gave her some schooling in heroism. Funnily, she took to that quite like she was born for it, and even joined Young Justice barely a few months ago, at about the same time that Dick, again as Nightwing, came off of his hiatus and rejoined the team, although he left leadership to Aqualad and Oracle. Rose’s father, needless to say, is _very_ proud. 

I guess her natural penchant for a new life of heroism could have come from the fact that Deathstroke was an unmannerly teacher. Rose is missing an eye, apparently because Deathstroke himself had gouged it out in reponse to her assertion that she wished to emulate him. Other allegations I’ve been made privy to include such evils as beatings, verbal abuse, and so on. Dick, with his affable nature, I'm sure was a saint in comparison. 

It was during the peak of her training that both the League, and Young Justice, were incapacitated and captured, then, unwaking, penned up in holding cells on Apokalips. I remember nothing of this incarceration, having been in a state of unconscious, suspended animation throughout. I recall dreams of storms, fire, falling, rushing water, even of my parents. The only true memories that I possess of the event are of rushing toward Psimon, the customary flash of light and pain inherent in a brain blast, and then awakening, in the Watchtower, to the relieved face of my foster son. It was then, as I sat recovering from the incident, that I was filled in as to what transpired.

Having received some information from her lone wolf father Deathstroke regarding what Darkseid had planned for both teams (Rose could be a very smooth talker when she wished to be), Dick brought Nightwing temporarily out of retirement, gathered Ravager, Wolf and Sphere (who had been left behind for reasons unknown), and laid out his own plan of attack to ensure a successful rescue mission. A couple of quick hacks into enemy tech revealed that scant time remained before the first Leaguers were to be brought in for experimentation. Nightwing raided the Hall of Justice, the team’s former headquarters (now converted into a warehouse and storage unit), and the Watchtower, seeking the necessary hazardous material suits for their mission on Apokalips, only to discover that the Light had already burglarized all three of those locations. Only one partially damaged radiation suit and a spare mask remained, the former of which Nightwing handed to Ravager for use upon the hostile planet. They were, at this point, out of time, and their window of opportunity grew slivered to a nearly impossible frame.

As Vandal Savage’s late human emissary had unluckily learned, a normal human being can last only a short while on Apokalips in its intense heat, heavy, widespread sources of ionizing radiation, and barren, parched landscape without protective gear before succumbing to severe radiation poisoning. Even some briefer stints will inevitably result in serious consequences, rapid onset cancers of the bone marrow and blood, and so on. In short, for a human to spend too long on that death trap will lead to an unavoidable, nasty demise. It is not a planet favorable to human life. 

In protective gear, the odds are far better. Such measures can ensure unlimited residence on the planet, and even some weaker gear can protect a human for as long as a few hours to a full earthly day. 

Given that Nightwing forked the only protective suit over to Ravager, and exited the Boom Tube to Apokalips in only the spare radiation mask and his regular combat suit (which, granted, was built with some radiation-resistant materials), they had to be extremely quick about their mission—as quiet, flawless, and covert as possible. No easy feat when those that require rescue number up to nearly a hundred. Wolf, with his augmentations, had, upon prior study, been proven to be significantly more impervious to the conditions of Apokalips than Dick might have been in his minorly protective suit, and Sphere was already well-adapted to the harsh environment.

Unfortunately, they were discovered, and the rescue attempt nosedived. While Ravager and Sphere hurried to free the captives, Nightwing and Wolf fought against a relentless onslaught of parademons and hounds, eventually drawing the attention of Darkseid himself. Ravager and Sphere, thankfully, by then, had managed to unload the vast majority of captives into the Boom Tube, aided by the Leaguers that had regained consciousness. Owing to a combination of Plastique putty grenades and Superman, they escaped, their mission a success, although both Wolf and Nightwing sustained some damage. 

He wasn’t up front about it, but Dick had battled parademons and hounds, not to mention Darkseid, for a dangerous duration of time on the scorched Apokoliptian plains, with only his own comparatively weak suit and the mask for protection. When queried as to how long he was exposed to the planet’s hostile conditions during his post-mission debriefing, he staunchly maintained he had been on the plains for under one hour. Although the timeline didn’t quite match up, no one pushed him about it, given that he had seemingly acquired only run-of-the-mill lacerations and contusions habitually gained in combat. He was given iodine tablets as a precautionary measure and told to inform appropriate parties if anything seemed awry. 

Just after this mission, Nightwing officially ended his leave of absence and reassumed his membership in Young Justice, continued with his classes at Bludhaven University, and life went on as usual. 

“Batman. Look.”

Zatanna’s voice startles me out of my rememberance, and after seemingly an eternity of focusing on where to best place my next step on this treacherous terrain, I look up, and I notice a shimmering, like heat waves, on the horizon, somehow out of place in the icy chill. An image flickers through the bending light and color, revealing an edifice that can be none other than the palace of Queen Mab, she who gave birth to the fairy tale of _The Snow Queen._

The palace makes me think of that of the White Witch. It rises from a mound of sparkling snow that seems sprinkled with gems that gleam shades of blue, violet and green, reflecting the light from the auroras that swirl overhead. There is no sun here; how the auroras glimmer in the sky is beyond me. There _are_ multitudes of stars, so many as to render the night sky a shade of periwinkle blue, glittering with so many jewels. The castle itself seems to have been carved from a giant snowflake, glowing palest silver at its center, and diffusing into smoky black. All of the details are astonishing, from its snowflake-shaped turrets to its carven, intricately detailed windows, to its twisting steps and engraved railings. Zatanna and I both pause a moment, drinking in its unearthly beauty. 

“Be on your guard,” I tell her. “But lower the veils.”

She nods. _“Nwod Sliev.”_

We approach the outermost gate to the palace, and I take a breath.

“We, mortals of the earthly realm, calling ourselves the Batman and Zatanna, desire an audience with the Queen of Air and Darkness,” I state. Mab, according to my research, is a secretive, isolated character, always wary of strangers, and far quicker to allow her many pets to eat approaching outsiders, than to allow newcomers to take longer than a moment’s glance at her home. Worse, she oftentimes will take prisoners, and not by the rules of the earthly time flow, but by her own, which, for a mortal, may as well be an eternity.

Hence, its nickname in stories. The Palace That Eats.

My voice echoes, then fades into silence. A number of noiseless moments ensue, interrupted only by the mournful keening of the wind. 

Then, as though transfigured from the air, a form materializes on the other side of the gate. I remain still, although my heart skips a little. I actively exude an air of tranquility, intending to lay any fears that this new Queen may have to rest. I have no wish for her to regard Zatanna and me as a threatening presence in her lands. While I did not approach the Sidhe High Court with the intention of battling, I know fully well that it could devolve into that here, and remain prepared to fight should it prove necessary. However, Mab is a force to be reckoned with. A skirmish with her is far more likely to result in our failure ever to return to our own realm.

The form behind the gate manifests into a solid shape, and I know that Zatanna and I are face-to-face now with the Queen of Air and Darkness. She crafts a most unsettling picture. She is quite as beautiful to gaze upon as her sister, but while Titania possesses characteristics that are friendly and warm, Mab radiates nothing of the sort. She is icy, closed-off, palpably deadly. While I did not have any desire to anger Titania, I feel that I am downright treading explosive blown glass with Mab. Even I, a human, can sense the power vibrating all around her, unseen waves of iciest cold and deepest darkness. Beside me, Zatanna’s unease is very apparent, as we study Mab in silence. Her skin is palest, iridescent cream, the lips a chilled, glistening, seashell pink, her eyes an inhuman hue of variegated cornflower blue and brightest silver, burningly cold, bits of dried ice beneath a fan of glittering navy lashes. Her hair, as white as the ice around us, marbled with shocks of blue and violet, is plaited into a rose-like crown about her head. The gown she wears is of black and silver, speckled with a scarcely perceptible pattern of snowflakes. She is reminiscent, to me, of a cone snail, breathtaking to gaze upon, but fraught with poison and peril. 

“Who are you really?” she queries, her deep, ear-piercing, reverberating voice all but shaking the ground below us. “Why do such Breoites seek audience with me? Explain yourselves.”

“We mean no intrusion, my Queen,” I say, degrading myself by kneeling down to her and lowering my head. “We are come to you at the encouragement of your sister, Titania. It is our intention to offer a service in return for a favor that we would ask of you. Please, allow us to explain.”

“A favor?” says Mab, her eyes darkening, and her voice quieting to a pitch equal to that of a normal mortal’s. “Titania always feels it her right to speak for me. Of what nature is this favor you would request?”

A thousand thoughts flit through my mind in the wake of this question, namely, how much information to provide her, how desperate, or not desperate, I ought to appear to be, but mostly, how difficult it will be for me to speak of the happenings of the past few months.

It was early in May when life, all at once, ceased to go on as usual. On a video call with Nightwing from the Bat Cave, I was in the process of briefing him regarding a situation that needed the immediate attention of Young Justice, given that the League was stretched thin with related crises. Right as Dick was about to end the call and move to deploying his own squads as field leader, a vivid rush of blood spilled from both of his nostrils with a suddenness. Startled, he reached a hand up to stem the flow, but it gushed with such a force that it had reached his chin, dribbling steadily onto the blue Nightwing symbol on his chest, before his hand could even reach his face. 

“Call you back,” he said haltingly, his hand over his mouth, and he cut the feed. 

Alarmed, I attempted to reestablish video, then to call him on his varying communications lines, without success. Having lost time, I hurried to join Green Arrow, Black Canary and the Hawks to lay siege to Captain Boomerang’s efforts to raid the Wayne Enterprises weapons tech storage facility in Star City. Once Boomerang was apprehended and sent to Belle Reve, I stole away, and raised Dick on his personal cell phone. He assured me that he was okay—that Black Canary had decked him in the face earlier that morning while sparring, and that his nose had been bleeding off and on all day since. It seemed a somewhat likely story, but I called Dinah to verify Dick’s account, and was perturbed to hear that they had not sparred that morning. I became angry, and, again, called Dick, this time demanding some answers. I was mostly interested in why he would lie, and expressed as much. He was quiet, then said he’d call later, and hung up before I could argue.

He arrived unexpectedly at Wayne Manor that same day, early in the afternoon. Alfred summoned me out of the Bat Cave, where I was tracking a lead on Boomerang’s (regrettably) escaped cohorts. I pulled the mask off, then headed into the front parlor of the house, where Dick sat in one of the chairs by the window. He was gazing at the floor, his elbows on his knees. He was out of his own suit, adorned instead in civilian clothes. He looked up as I approached. Even through his smile, he appeared a bit peaked, somehow robbed of his usual effervescence. 

“Hey,” he said by way of greeting, returning his eyes to the floor. 

“Well,” I replied, crossing my arms. “Are you ready to start giving me some real answers here?”

He sighed, locking his fingers together. “I guess. Depends on the questions.”

I stared down at him, then also sighed. “I’m not even sure what I should be asking, myself.”

There was a silence, loaded and awkward, loud with each other’s unspoken thoughts. 

“I’m not really sure what’s going on here, either, Bruce,” he said. His voice was quiet. “But… pretty much since we got back from Apokalips, I haven’t really… felt right.”

“Not felt right how?” I inquired, a sliver of dread working itself into my gut.

He shrugged. “Just… Well, here. See for yourself.”

He stood, turned, and lifted his shirt over his head. My stomach fell out from underneath me at what I saw—a painful-looking network of deep, violet-blue bruises and reddish, circular, mottled marks, all across his back, stormclouds of color blossoming beneath his skin, broken up in places by patches of normal flesh. 

“Jesus, Dick,” I hissed, unable to resist probing at the marks with my fingertips. “What the hell have you been doing to yourself?”

He lowered his shirt and looked helplessly at me. “I have _no_ idea how I got these. They’re all over my legs, too. And this morning wasn’t exactly the first nosebleed I’ve had in a while, either.”

“Why haven’t you said anything?” I snapped.

He shook his head. “I just figured it was all from missions, sparring, training, that kind of thing. But I haven’t actually been on the field in almost a week, haven’t sparred much, either, and it’s like these marks just came out of nowhere.” He looked down, and sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That, and I just haven’t been feeling all that great. Like… I’m tired— _really_ tired, no matter how much sleep I get, I feel like I haven’t slept at all. My stomach hurts so bad I can’t eat half the time. I’ve put off mentioning it, you know, thinking it was some bug or another and it’d get better, but… no change. I think something’s wrong.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” I said. “Sit tight for a second. I’m going to change, and then we’re going to the doctor.”

He acquiesced, again sitting in the chair by the window. “Okay. Shouldn’t we… I don’t know, make an appointment first?”

I shook my head, already on my way out of the room. “I have a client who runs a family practice—I’m sure he’ll figure out a way to fit you in. He owes me a favor, anyway, so I guess it’s about time I cashed in on that.”

I had plenty of resources that could diagnose him in the Bat Cave, but, while I wanted to verify my own suspicions as to what was wrong then and there, I had to acknowledge that I, and Alfred, only had so much know-how regarding what was to be done from the point of diagnosis itself. Whatever procedures might follow, I was certain that I could pick them up quickly enough, given an already reasonable hack’s knowledge of medicine, owing to my father’s legacy. However, if it was serious, as I feared, for as much as I wished to hold to the adage “if you want something done right, do it yourself,” I realized I had to accept that I may have to uncomfortably relinquish control to relevant, more experienced parties. 

I left Dick in the parlor while I tore off the Batsuit and changed hurriedly into civvies. In a matter of moments, I had loaded him into the fastest vehicle my extensive garage had to offer, shy of the Bat Mobile itself, and we were weaving in and out of highway traffic at comfortably into triple digit speeds. That we avoided getting nabbed by well-intentioned police I swear to this day was divine intervention, but we made it to this aforementioned doctor friend’s office in less than ten minutes, despite Dick’s griping at me to “get traught or get arrested.” 

When I whipped the Lotus into a parking space at the office lot, Dick gave me an angry look.

“You _are_ aware you just broke pretty much every single traffic law ever written, right?” he snapped. 

I could visualize the headlines in my mind’s eye: _Entrepreneur and Philanthropist Bruce Wayne Awaiting Trial for Driving Like Bat Out of Hell in Penis Car._ In light of my own fears, though, I didn’t care if I concerned him or scared the other drivers, or even if I got nailed for reckless op.

“Let’s go,” I said, heading inside without waiting for him.

It took a few minutes to locate my client and friend, Dr. Cross, inside, and after a brief conversation, Pieter agreed to take a look at Dick during a twenty-minute interim between his scheduled afternoon visits. 

Once he finished filling out customary paperwork, Dick and I sat together in the waiting room, chatting a bit. I asked after his relationship with Barbara, and whether or not they planned on rekindling things. Dick, obviously unhappy, informed me that Babs apparently was seeing someone else, and, worse yet, that it seemed somewhat serious. He and Barbara had agreed to marry not long after she sustained the spinal injury dealt unto her by the Joker, but she had just as quickly broken off the engagement, after a fight in which she accused Dick of such things as commitment-phobia, womanizing, and also of rushing into marriage out of feeling obligated to care for her. How true to the mark her allegations were, I can’t say, but I knew that he took the whole thing fairly hard, and was pretty heartbroken over how quickly she moved on from him. I wasn’t opposed to the break-up, as I felt they were too young to consider such a huge commitment (humorous, really, in light of the lives they led), but I didn’t like to see Dick hurt, either.

“I’m sure she’ll come around,” I said lamely, having little else to offer.

“Eh, no, she won’t. And I deserve it,” Dick replied. “Wally always said I was a dog. Can’t really blame Babs for thinking I’m not ready for the real deal just yet.” He sighed. “Oh, well. You drink what you brew, I guess.”

“Well, dog is a relative term,” I told him, doing my utmost to be comforting, something I’m pretty godawful at. “Serial monogamy isn’t the same thing, you know. There’s really nothing wrong with playing the field when you’re a kid.”

“Not so much when you’re kind of the team bicycle, Bruce,” he said, chuckling a bit. “The fact everyone’s had a ride tends to come back to you eventually.” He stared at his hands, fingers interlocked in front of him, as though they were of tremendous interest. 

“Dick, we all have our vices,” I told him. “Last I checked, no damage was done.”

He shook his head. “Well, yeah, I mean, it was always agreed on beforehand that we weren’t serious or anything. Except for Zatanna, anyway. But otherwise, it was really all just a bunch of mutual attractions.” 

“Attractions? So… Always reduced to your looks? What an enviable problem to have.”

He laughed. “Conner couldn’t be the only one. Anyway. It all just meant a lot more to Babs than it did to me.”

“Well, that’s in the past now,” I said, “ and if things with her new boyfriend don’t pan out, I’m sure she’ll be able to see that you’re serious about her eventually. ”

“I doubt it,” he muttered. “But thanks, Bruce.”

The nurse called Dick out of the lobby about then, and I sat waiting, memorizing the wording on the posters about safe sex and handwashing. I informed both the League and team that Nightwing and I would be on an indeterminate leave of absence via email, and upon askance, did not reply, hoping against hope that no team members would track us down and show up, asking questions that I was not ready to answer. 

After enough time had passed that I swear my dusting of facial hair grew into a full-blown beard, Dick came back out, informing me that the exam was finished, and that he had to have some bloodwork done. I asked when that was scheduled, and at his reply that it was right then, I experienced a new wash of dread. I, again, waited, and upon the bloodwork’s completion, we were sent off to the building adjoining the main office in order to, to my deeper disquiet, have a bone marrow sample taken. 

This time, I accompanied Dick, as, so the receptionist informed me, some people had trouble with the procedure. It occurred to me that it was a good thing Dick wasn’t particularly intimidated by needles, given that the bone marrow extraction could easily be received as a horrible, invasive, disturbing process that has not been done any valuable services in the movies. The nurse produced an impossibly long, hollow needle that reminded me more of a soda straw or a medieval torture device than a medical tool. 

“ _That_ thing is not a needle,” Dick said humorously. “That’s a freaking gas siphon.” 

The nurse, a very handsome older woman adorned in pink, breast cancer awareness scrubs, chuckled, and after swabbing a patch of skin on Dick’s hip with bustling effiency, plunged the metal gas siphon—well, needle—into his flesh. It looked like it hurt, and my beliefs to this end seemed confirmed when Dick sucked in a breath, held it, and slowly released it as she continued with the procedure. I stood by like an immobile lump, feeling an inclination to at least lay a hand on his shoulder, but failing to so much as blink, let alone move. It was as though every communications line between my brain and limbs had been cut, and I could do nothing but watch as the procedure was completed, and Dick sat up, pulling the waist of his jeans back into its proper place. At the front, we were informed that the results would likely be in by the following afternoon, and that Dr. Cross would be in touch with Dick once they were. 

I later phoned Pieter, asking him to call me with the results. He was initially hesitant, but eventually agreed to do so, as my friend. 

Dick was on summer vacation at that point, and didn’t need to worry about school, so he stayed at Wayne Mansion that night, after I established with our respective Leagues that we would be continuing our leaves of absence until further notice. After some resistance, I made it clear that I would brook no argument on the matter, although it ruffled some feathers. 

I didn’t sleep, instead gazing at the ceiling, the clock (at 12:54, 1:47, 2:31), the wall in the darkness. I rose a little after 3:15, and sat for a while by the window, studying the movement of the shadows in the garden below as the moon passed overhead. I couldn’t seem to relax, and so, with a pot of coffee, I headed into the Bat Cave to busy myself. 

Throughout the day, between turning up and providing information to the League and consulting with its various members (and having Barry tease me about failing to understand the concept of a leave of absence), I surreptitiously probed Alfred to inform me of Dick’s condition.

“He seems cheerful enough, Master Bruce, but a little more… well, perhaps a little more static than usual. He did, however, put in a workout this morning, that I noticed.”

“What’s he up to now?”

“He’s out in the garden, reading, I believe.”

I felt comforted that Dick at least seemed well enough to take his pursuits outside, and spared a little chuckle when I realized he was likely taking the opportunity presented by the leave of absence to finally finish reading the novel that the job seemed to be conspiring against him completing. I continued to work, keeping an ear out for the phone. 

The call at last came at close to 5, when I was considering wrapping it up for the day. I had managed to successfully lose myself in the job, but upon reaching a lull between tasks toward the late afternoon, I thought again on the test results. I ran some scripts and sat back in the chair before the series of screens, by now simply waiting, in the one room that I felt the most comfortable.

When Alfred informed me that Dr. Cross was on the phone, I rushed out of the Cave, and accepted the call in the parlor. 

“Hi, Pieter,” I said gruffly, not giving him a lot of space for further greeting. “Are the results in?”

“They are,” he said, and by the tone of his voice, my heart quickly began to sink. “Bruce, I wish I had better news.”

“Want to give it to me straight?”

“Well, the bloodwork revealed some abnormalities that were of some concern—”

“I said to give it to me straight,” I snapped, reverting to the no-bullshit tone favored by the Batman.

“Richard has acute myeloid leukemia, Bruce, I’m sorry,” he said.

It was a horrible moment of every fear confirmed and nightmare realized as I stood, absorbing these awful words, with the phone to my ear. 

“Is it treatable?” I asked. 

“We’ll see. He’s going to have to come back for more tests,” said Pieter. “He’ll have to have PET scans done, and likely we’ll also do some X-rays, some ultrasound exams, possibly a lumbar puncture, to see if it’s spread outside the blood and bone marrow, and we will go from there.”

“Is a bone marrow transplant possible? My blood type matches his, I can—”

“It’s not so simple as that, Bruce, I’m sorry,” said Pieter, and I seethed, feeling patronized. “If it’s spread, a transplant won’t do much good. That aside, that procedure is extremely invasive and dangerous. And… I wish I could tell you differently, but he’s exhibited symptoms that suggest it has spread. Which is why we’ll be doing the other tests, to see if and where it has.” 

I sighed, feeling a hideous tingling starting in my abdomen, reverberating painfully throughout my limbs. 

“Thanks, Pieter,” I said numbly, and hung up. 

I stood in the parlor, inert, thoughts buzzing through my brain faster than I could process. With one more phone call, I ended my leave of absence, not wanting to confront these thoughts in any short order.

Dick took the news fairly well, as I suspected he would, approaching it in his normal “whelmed” manner. He refused to have me accompany him to his appointments, stating that he could deal with the situation on his own. In the midst of these goings-on, he, also, ended his leave of absence, leading me to believe that all was well, or at least, that it would be.

I approached him one night as a League briefing dispersed, and asked after what his appointments had revealed, indicating that I assumed the prognosis was good if he was back at work. 

He held my gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“The prognosis wasn’t good,” he said. “Apparently it spread pretty quickly. Cross gave me a few months, although we might be able to extend that with treatment.”

_No._

I stared at him. “What are you _doing_ here, then?”

“I’m here because we have a job to do,” he stated. “Last I checked, the world’s not about to stop just because I’m sick. We also _really_ don’t need the Light or Darkseid catching wind of this and taking advantage of it any time soon. So for now, nothing’s wrong. Okay?” He glanced away as the teams assembled. “Let’s go.”

I caught his shoulder. “You should probably sit this one out.”

He shook his head. “Can’t be done. Darkseid’s making some serious moves. Besides, I’m not sure I’m ready to leave Ravager out on the field by herself just yet. Still not much of a team-player.”

“Let Robin deal with that,” I said. “You need to be on the bench. In any case, you covered with Oracle that you’d be overseeing missions for a while, not joining them.”

He gave me a smile. “Sorry, no can do. I feel like a little action while I’m still up for it, and besides, I plan on going until I drop.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

“Stay whelmed, Bats,” he said. He laid a hand on my arm. “In the meantime, better get moving. The game is afoot.”

He turned, and jogged away. Angry, I followed at a slower pace, then cut away. To my even greater anger, Superman approached me.

“What was that about?” he queried as I prepared to climb into the Bat Ship. “I couldn’t help but overhear…”

“Nothing that you need to concern yourself with right now,” I snapped. “And it’s nothing you need to eavesdrop on, either. Mind your own damn business, got it?”

His expression was even more infuriating. He appeared unperturbed, even concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“Just peachy,” I said sarcastically, strapping into the pilot’s seat. “Move.”

I punched the button to close the cockpit so hard I about broke it, and wondered briefly if I would have to throw the ship forward into Superman before he would consider moving his sanctimonious ass out of my way. He stood, gazing at me, as though patiently waiting for me to share the sordid details of my conversation with Nightwing. I lowered the lever to disengage the wheel-locks, and menacingly idled the ship in his direction. Finally, he got the point, and took off.

We deployed to disable and unveil the cloaked devices that the Light had attached to numerous space stations orbiting the earth. These gadgets, similar to satellites, were intended to present espionage opportunities by enabling them to surreptitiously gather intelligence on the League and on manifold of their other targets across the globe, and then the Light planned to deliver this intel back to Darkseid. The tech, an updated version of that which birthed the “Big Ear,” was well-guarded by parademons and various of our enemies that were impervious to the conditions of space, so, naturally, we encountered difficulty in remaining clandestine in our operations. Aggravated by the fact that I had not been placed on a team with Nightwing, where I could keep an eye on him, I entered the space station that my group was assigned to. While Flash and I located and disabled each device installed within the structure, Captain Marvel, Red Arrow, Rocket and Green Lantern provided distractions to the various guard posts strewn throughout the usually unoccupied space station. Equally, we gathered proof of the tampering to provide to NASA, having gained approval from the relevant parties to do so. It was a delicate operation, and one that ended up combat-heavy for all of us. Relieved to be forced into thinking of blessed things other than leukemia and spread cancers and my own issues regarding death and loss, I hurled myself into battle, sticking as much as I could to hand-to-hand techniques, keeping my thoughts focused on only that moment, that enemy, that place. Once the devices were dealt with, I fought my way back to the Bat Ship, leaving a string of unconscious monsters in my wake. We had made quick work of the mission, and I realized, unhappily, that I would have to confront my darker thoughts before long. I enabled cloaking on the Bat Ship, and headed to the Watchtower, my companions following behind. Now came the unsettling time to wait, and hope that Nightwing would make it back safely and without ceremony.

If he really wished to continue the job until he dropped, I had no idea how he intended to go about hiding his condition from the League, as he intended. Depending upon what treatment he chose to pursue, a secretive approach could prove itself very difficult. With no distractions to draw my thoughts away from this path, I witnessed a sickening vision of him, skeletal, his normally thick, heavy, jet-black hair sparse and cropped close to his head, his eyes huge and sunken into his gaunt face. Unseen hands closed a vice, laden with spikes, around the curvature of my chest, and with each new awful disclosure, this proverbial iron maiden became tighter still, the spikes sinking deep into flesh, passing through bones and vitals. 

I could have raised Nightwing on the communications line, but I knew how he would feel if I were to do so just to ask after his wellbeing. Annoyed, put off, insulted, offended, patronized. I was maddeningly forced to stand in the control room of the Watchtower, reduced to watching signals, piecing together what transpired at the other locations through a series of dots on a screen. 

When at last the remaining teams began to filter back into the Watchtower, I hurried out of the debriefing that followed, and waited by the entrance to the Bludhaven Zeta Tube. When Nightwing approached the entrance, he saw me waiting, and paused. With obvious consternation, he attempted to duck past me. I waylaid him, catching him by the arm, and led him to an empty conference room down the corridor. 

Even in the dim light, I could see a visible bruise forming across the sharp curve of his jawline, shadow fingers of muddled purple gripping his face like ghostly claws. Before he could object, I grabbed him by the chin, tilting his head so I could better study the discoloration. Traces of dried blood flecked his upper lip. I probably added to the mark just by grabbing him.

“What happened here?” I asked.

“Chalant much? I took a hit to the face,” he said, jerking out of my grasp. 

“How hard?”

“Well, hard enough, obviously. It’s really no big deal.”

“It _looks_ like you got flattened.”

He was silent. 

“Dick,” I said, making a Herculean effort to gentle my voice. “Talk to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. What are your plans, from here? And don’t tell me you think you’re going to continue going on missions and doing field work.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I plan on doing.”

“And just how the hell do you plan on doing that, exactly?” I demanded. “Damn it, you’re _sick_. I know it’s hard to accept, but you are. You can’t ignore this, you can’t run from this, you can’t hide from it, you can’t change it. You’re a human being and you have limits.” I paused in my tirade. “Okay?”

There was a very long silence, during which he stared resolutely at the floor, and then finally, he looked at me, his eyes dark and murky. 

“I know,” he said. 

More silence followed, fraught with discomfort, uncertainty, and a sense of waiting.

“So,” I said, at last breaking into the silence. “What happens from here?”

He sighed. “Well, there aren’t a lot of options.”

“Don’t give me that. We have access to some of the most formidable technology in the universe. You can’t possibly ask me to believe—”

“With all due respect, Batman,” he said, cutting me off, “if any of our more advanced allies could provide a cure, they would have by now. Believe me, I looked into it.”

My heart sank. “A clinical trial?”

He nodded. “Looks that way. Star Labs is offering us the use of some brand new experimental synthetic compounds to partner with traditional chemo drugs and gene therapy. Even then, though… Cross said it’s not going to cure anything, it just might prolong things.” He crossed his arms, looking at the ground. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to take this lying down, Bats. Okay, given the odds, I know I ought to be a little dismayed here, but, well… I’d rather get mayed and keep hoping.”

“When do you start treatment?”

“Monday.”

“Want me to come with you?”

He was quiet a moment. “You sure? Alfred already said he’d take me…”

“I’m sure.”

He nodded. “…Thanks. Bruce.”

I nodded. I had already determined that I would check into every possible angle that he might have unknowingly overlooked, whether he was aware of my efforts or not, intent on seeing him well again. It seemed the only fair recompense for the fact that if not for his actions, there would be no League to speak of, very well spelling the end of human life as we knew it. I couldn’t accept that his pivotal rescue mission months before would only result in his suffering and death. So, I accepted nothing, except that I would pursue all venues. It was easy, in light of how healthy he still appeared at that time, to feel that there was hope, given our exposure to such a vast resource of alien technology, mysticism, the healing arts of New Genesis, my own mental acuity, and allies (also, enemies) of equal savvy. After he agreed to my invitation to stay at the mansion, we left the Watchtower, together. 

Kneeling before Mab, now, an invisible lasso closes over my heart, drawing taut and strangulating with an intensifying tightness, as I revisit each event of the past few months, detailing to her the nature of what it is that I desire. With each divulgence, her countenance becomes increasingly inscrutable, her face stonier, her eyes impossibly hyperborean. Finally, she lifts a hand, silencing me. 

“Am I to understand, mortal,” she says, her voice humming deep and velvety, like a cello, “that you wish me to _heal_ this young man, of whom you speak?”

“You understand correctly, Queen Mab,” I say, still bowing my head respectfully. 

“Oh, bold… most bold,” she murmurs to herself, tilting her head with interest. “This is the same bargain that my sister refused?”

“Yes.”

“I see…” Her arched, silvery brows furrow, and she raises a finger to tap at her chin. “Please, young mortal, who dons the likeness of the bat. Continue.”

Raising my eyes to hers, I do.

The Monday that Dick was scheduled to begin treatment came all too slowly and all too quickly simultaneously. In the days preceding, we spent the time in a conspiracy of silence, neither of us discussing what was to come. Dick continued to work with the team, despite my strenuous oppositions, even heading out on the field numerous times. It was at that point that Monday couldn’t come quickly enough, in light of the completely pitiless strains on my own health. 

I understood the desire to continue on with his normal life, considering the need to retain secrecy from our enemies, and also that he do so for his own sake. Dick is a fighter, and has always been one. I felt strongly that he would kick, punch, scratch, bite, and throw knees and elbows at this unseeable attacker until it dragged him away by the ankles into that next place. 

And so, understanding that the potent drugs utilized in chemotherapy brought with them considerable suffering that was fully capable of sucking the fight right out of him, I was resolved to turn up a new avenue before Monday arrived. I told my affiliates at Wayne Enterprises that I would be going on an extended vacation, and I guess, in a way, I did—in the short duration available to me, I sought possible cures from all manners of sources, Thenagar, Themyscira, Atlantis, New Genesis, all those adroit in the mystic arts. I even solicited Lex Luthor, as Bruce Wayne. The only resource that I did not pursue was that of R’as Al Ghul’s Lazarus pits. I knew all too heartbreakingly well the effect those twisted pools had on the human soul. I wouldn’t stand for Dick’s heart to be dirtied through my own selfish desire to keep him healthy. 

My quest turned up several false promises, each appearing halcyon on first glance, but revealing, beneath their roseate surfaces, that they came with steep costs, or were devoid of any benefit entirely. Thenagaryens do not suffer cancers as humans do, and their medicaments would be of no help. When I begged their alchemists to construct something that might prove to be of use, I was informed with remorse that attempts had been made already with fatal results, and if they were to try again, confronted with such an attenuated timeline, such a feat would be impossible, unless Dick was bought at least an earthly year, impossible by human medicine. In Themyscira, attempting to remain clandestine was enough of a challenge due to the fact that Diana regularly returned there, but I was also practically thrown out after being told that even a drop of one of their potions would kill my charge, anyway, and they were disinterested in assisting in the rescue of a human male. Without Diana’s intervention, it was a dead end, and even if she were to implore her Amazon sisters for aid, there was no guarantee that they would bend. Frustrated, I spent an entire day and night studying Atlantean medicine, which was entwined in the mystic arts, to no avail. Magical healing is, across the board, imparted by the giving of one’s own life essence—in order for the spell caster to repair the condition of another, he or she must provide however much of his or her own life force is required to cure the ailment that they are attempting to remedy. In a situation like Dick’s, a spell caster would have to give up his or her very life to heal him. Regarding New Genesis, I maintained hope, but was let down when the new gods reiterated to me that they could not heal Dick without healing every other human being that battled cancer, as was only equitable, and which would throw the earth out of balance. 

Finally, exercising extreme prejudice, I sought to explore what Lex Luthor might have to offer, with every belief that I would “get mayed,” but was, instead, dismayed, when I learned that the best recourse he could offer was comprised of the same drugs to be used in Dick’s trial. I was aghast to learn that Luthor had, in fact, pioneered and funded the manufacture of these new medicines, and also that Dick would be the first ever to receive them. In the end, he expressed apparently genuine sympathy, but also assured me that, in spite of their intensely uncomfortable (and mostly incurable) side effects, these experimental compounds would significantly extend Dick’s life expectancy. 

Exhausted of options, I faced Monday with the sinking feeling that in order to see Dick healthy again, I would likely have to sell my soul to the devil himself. By this time, I was sleep-deprived, fighting an unseasonal cold, and mentally stretched impossibly thin. When I drove him into the oncologist’s office, I felt sick to my stomach and jittery, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. I had pounded an endless supply of coffee, having been out almost all night, making up for the time that I had neglected to give to my League duties, and then returning to attempt discovery on enemy intel for the rest of the morning. When the time at last came to head to the appointment, my stomach protested to such an extent that was bothersome even by my standards. Possibly it was the continued intake of coffee that caused the stomach pain in the first place, but I didn’t care to stem the influx, and so I made the ample, well-informed decision to quell the incumbent discomfort with meds. Dick caught me as he came downstairs into the foyer, and gave me a concerned look.

“You okay?” he asked. 

I nodded. “Yeah. Too much caffeine.”

I chased the pills with coffee.

“Yep…” he said with a smirk. “That’ll help.”

“Of course it will. This stuff is magic in and of itself,” I said, handing him a portable cup of coffee already prepped with sugar (his preference, the heathen.) “Got curative properties, you know. Better drink up.”

He took the cup with a laugh, and we headed out. 

Waiting in the office of Gotham's Cancer Care Unit (which I would later come to hotly detest) was worse than being subjected to torture, a claim that I can back up with experience. Dick seemed distant as we chewed over a couple of different topics, each one as trivial as the next, from the hockey play-offs to how my latest charity marathon went (another Boston qualifier… a life as the Batman has its advantages.) The atmosphere grew shadowed when Dick told me that he had qualified as well at his last race. We each trailed off when it occurred to us both that, under the current circumstances and barring some miracle, he would not be running at Boston. When we were led into the back, and sat awaiting the oncology nurses and entourage of researchers who would administer the treatment, we continued to chat halfheartedly. I don’t think either of us paid much attention to what the other actually said. I was told by a tech who peeked his head in through the doorway to keep some distance from Dick, and so, I moved to a chair a little ways off. 

The procedure itself seemed straightforward enough. I watched as the the nurses, clad in all manner of protective garb including gloves and masks, and under the supervision of Star Labs researchers, catheterized Dick through his chest to provide a primary direction point. One more tube was applied through his opposite arm. Each pack of drugs was contained in biohazard bags. I was unclear as to which contained the chemo, and which contained the trial compounds. Given the easy bleeding inherent in leukemias, he was encouraged to maintain a close watch on the catheter site, and to keep an eye out for excessive fluid loss, bruising and infection. He agreed to these caveats, and with that, the actual infusion began.

It was surprisingly anticlimactic, and as the drugs were delivered, the oncologist, accompanied by the head researcher from Star Labs (a man with whom I was personally familiar, a Dr. Stone, whose ventures I frequently funded through Wayne Enterprises), entered to further discuss certain side effects, and how to manage them. Dick gently mentioned to me that he had already gone over the relevant questions with Cross at an earlier date when I began making my own queries, so I quieted.

The drugs were infused over several hours, on a repetitive cycle of first applying them, and then doling out other medications (antihistamines and antiemetics, among some others, like the gene therapy capsule, that I noticed), and then repeating the chemotherapy and trial medications, and so forth. During this time, we intermittently sat in silence, spoke, again, of varying trivialities, what he planned to do with his apartment and with regard to school, and streamed videos from his smartphone. Given that many unwanted ears were present, we did not discuss what to do about the League and team.

When the session was complete, Dick was kept there to undergo some questions and observation, and then we were, at last, released from the office to head back to the mansion. He seemed in high enough spirits, but, regardless, I inquired after how he was feeling. He said that to his own surprise he felt fine, albeit tired, at least for then. I allowed myself a moment to feel grateful for the fact that the Light, and Apokalips, had both been quiet, and that we were off-duty.

Later that evening, as we sat in the den watching the hockey play-offs, Dick took a rapid turn for the worse. He sat with his knees folded and leaning into the cushions, elbow on the arm of the sofa, head supported on his hand. I glanced over at him, noticing that his eyes were closed and his brow furrowed, as though he concentrated hard on some inner thought. 

“You okay?” I asked.

“…I don’t feel so good,” he said. His eyes shot open, and he leapt to his feet. “I _really_ don’t feel so good…”

I jumped up to follow him as he stumbled hurriedly in the direction of the washroom, then pitched forward in the middle of the hall.

“Not gonna make it, not gonna make it—”

I caught up to him right as he went to his knees, cupped his shirt, and vomited into it. I helped him to his feet, guiding him to the bathroom, pausing as he hitched a couple of times. How he managed to avoid decorating the hallway is still beyond me, but he spared Alfred and me an uncomfortable clean-up job. Ensuring that he was okay for the moment, I ducked out to grab the articles suggested by the nurses for use when these things occurred. 

“Damn it,” Dick muttered as he, shaking like a leaf, carefully removed his tee and dropped it into the proffered plastic garbage bag I provided. “I liked that shirt.”

I chuckled a little, handing him the spare shirt I’d nabbed from his room. “Better than the carpeting.”

“Ugh, yeah,” he said, tossing the shirt away. “Poor Alfred.”

He leaned over the toilet, slowly inhaling through his nose, and exhaling through his mouth. 

“Didn’t the nurse give you an antiemetic?”

“She did,” he said. “Apparently… not helping.”

As if on cue, he heaved savagely, gripping the basin with white knuckles, all of the color draining from his flesh. I knelt beside him, keeping a hand on his back, letting him know I was there. 

_This is how it’s going to be,_ I realized, watching and feeling his back muscles bunch and loosen, twisting with each lurch forward. _It all starts with this. It all starts here. And it finishes a hell of a lot worse._

Not wanting to think on that, I focused instead on the task at hand, and helped him rise when he decided that he was probably finished. He was quivering, his skin damp and clammy to the touch. He stalwartly pulled the shirt I’d given him over his head, then refused support in walking, although he was unsteady enough on his feet that it concerned me to watch him. We made it back to the den, where he dropped down on the couch, and promptly drifted off. I covered him with a blanket and let him rest, while I sat beside, watching but not paying attention to the game. The fact that Dick was scheduled to endure three weeks of this and only after that be permitted to rest and rebuild healthy cells for seven days was an unfathomable horror to me.

He exhibited a remarkable equanimity, and barely a few days into treatment, showed up back at the Watchtower. Although he made efforts to avoid field work when possible, he didn’t balk at it when he was unable to, and provided Oracle with indispensable assistance from headquarters. Not one of the team members seemed even a little suspicious that anything was wrong with him in these early days. 

For my part, I did the best I could, with Alfred, to look after Dick during treatment, driving him to and from the seemingly interminable appointments and ensuring that the surfeit of meds he was prescribed was taken with borderline ritualism. Alfred was active in this, but, selfishly, I found that I personally wanted to provide the most care, and so, I did. 

Dick, to his credit, managed the symptoms well enough, joking, even, about the fact that cancer seemed to have its own culture and he felt like the side effects of the trial drugs and chemotherapy were something of an initiation. Occasionally, however, due to the aggressive dosing, these side effects unfortunately got the better of him, leaving him itching and peeling, turning up with nasty, uncomfortable sores and swollen gums, perpetually nauseated and vomiting even in spite of the antiemetic drugs, and feeling continually exhausted and foggy, symptoms also barely affected by the countering medications. One of the worst things was that he experienced what Cross referred to as “oxygen hunger,” the jargon term being dyspnea, and although he dealt with this at home through the use of an oxygen kit, he did not take the pack to work.

At first, even facing so much discomfort, he vigorously objected to any assistance, but as the weeks passed, he slowed in his oppositions, finally grinding them to a halt altogether. In its own way, this hurt to see. But, at the same time, I won’t lie—I was not averse to the feeling of being needed. I stayed as close to him as I could on the job, as maintaining a hands-on approach to his work with the team enabled me to ensure that the job catered to his good days, and did not press him on his bad ones. 

Of course, such ease expends itself eventually. Over time, the effects, at last, began to undeniably show. Dick visibly lost weight, and, frankly, his very persona seemed to grow thinner along with his body and hair. Leaguers and his own teammates were all, finally, beginning to look at him sideways, some whispering to each other when he passed by them, uttering such words as “anorexia” and “depression.” We didn’t say as much, but we both knew that to bring the situation to light was soon going to be unavoidable.

And, apparently, the powers that be agreed with our unspoken belief that the time had come to confront the truth. During treatment one morning, one of the nurses noted that Dick had a fever, and although she advised him to rest under close watch once home, we were paged to the Watchtower not even an hour after we returned to the manor. I had covered for Nightwing too many times that week to make further excuses without rousing suspicion, so I promised him that I would help him out of it if he could just hang in there long enough to make it through the briefing. 

The mission was intended to extract evidence that would draw a personal connection between Lex Luthor and Darkseid that did not involve the Light. Given that the climate control had gone out in the building and the summer heat was positively oppressive, Luthor’s managers in the Lex-Corp building in Metropolis had closed the place down until the appliances could be fixed, meaning the opportunity to sneak into the building and turn up proof of this connection at last opened itself. As I detailed this to the squads, I noticed that, in the glow from the holographic presentation screens, Dick’s face shone with the customary sheen of perspiration that preceded his sick spells. I wrapped things up as quickly as I could, and approached him.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

He nodded. “I’ll be fine. Just—not feeling so hot.”

“Nightwing—can you go over which are the best tools to use in combination with your existing hacks with Gamma Squad?” Oracle asked, suddenly wheeling up beside him. “They’re arguing about it over there… And I can’t deal with them right now, I have to give Beta the run-down on how to use Evol-Tech.” 

Nightwing frowned, initially silent, but then, nodded. “Yeah, sure. Uh… just a second.”

He passed a hand over his face, and headed over to where Gamma had assembled. He seemed steady enough, but by the hunch of his shoulders, I knew it would be only minutes before things went downhill. If he couldn’t make it through tutoring the squad and withdrawing from the crowd in that period of time, I knew that the flood of questions would become more direct, more probing, and it would force our hand. I caught the handle of Babs’ chair, stalling her motions to approach Beta. 

“Nightwing’s feeling a little below par,” I told her. “He might need to spend some time in the med-lab later. I’m going to stand by, close to Gamma, just in case.” 

She gave me a concerned look. “All right. Umm…” She lowered her voice. “Batman, is he okay? He looks… not well. And hasn’t looked well for a while. But every time I’ve asked him about it, he’s stonewalled me.” She gave me a knowing look. “Something’s going on, isn’t it. And you know what it is.”

“We’ll talk about that later, Babs,” I told her. “He’ll be okay for the time being, so don’t worry just yet, all right?”

She frowned at me. “Don’t worry just yet? Bats—seriously. What’s happening here? Like I said, I’ve tried asking him about it, but it’s like talking to a brick wall. And… in all honesty, it’s scaring me a little. Please—tell me.” 

“Like I said. We’ll talk later.”

She continued to frown at me as I left her to hover a little ways from where the Gamma Squad assembled, comprised of a few of the newer additions to the team, namely Ravager and Kid Devil, as well as veteran members Impulse (now Kid Flash), Beast Boy, and Miss Martian. Blue Beetle, as he moved to join his own squad, paused for a moment, and appraised Nightwing’s wasting appearance with a look of what I swore to be regret. He had to have been informed by his scarab of Dick’s illness, and with the knowledge I had acquired regarding the scarab itself, I knew it would not have given Jaime a rosy explication of the outlook. I pointedly stepped into his line of sight, and ensured that he moved on with a glance over my shoulder.

“Okay. So with these Lex-Corp-specific systems,” Nightwing said, bringing up an ever-changing line of encrypted code on the holographic computer he carried, “it’s not so much a matter of using tools in combination to hack into the network as it is stealing info and using it. Given that we’ve already gained access to the home network of one of his security officers and tampered with it to hijack his phone—thankfully, the guy was our best friend and plugged the dirty phone into his work machine to charge it, meaning… hello, access!—it’s really as simple as mapping the network in a passive manner so it doesn’t trigger any sort of intrusion detection system. See, by using this ‘man-in-the-middle’ sniffing attack, you can steal encrypted passwords and push those, as is, to the server—”

He paused, his jaw clenching, his breathing shallow, rapid, and concentrated. Sweat, illuminated by the blue-ish hue of the holograph, dribbled down his pallid face. He closed his eyes, and, pressing a hand to the wall, leaned his weight against it. 

“Are you okay?” asked M’gann, tilting her head, studying him with concern.

He nodded, and held up a hand when Ravager moved to approach him. Inhaling slowly, deeply, he straightened, and refocused on the holographic projection. I readied myself, inwardly giving him about five words before he could no longer keep it together. 

“Sorry. Anyway, you never have to actually crack anything, and you can log into any of the servers—”

After these (nineteen) words, the twentieth was lost as he heaved with a violence as yet unmatched. He twisted, blindly seeking some receptacle to get sick into. I pushed through the group of Gamma Squad members, gently shouldering Ravager aside, and guided Nightwing to a trashcan, where he dropped to his knees and spectacularly lost hold of seemingly everything he had ingested over the past year. I waved off his hovering teammates. 

“Is he—is he okay?” stammered Ravager in a high-pitched squeak. She looked on in horror, her hands covering her mouth.

“I’ll be fine, Padawan,” said Nightwing into the wastebin. “Have Oracle finish this up… Miss M. can help you once you’re out on the field…” 

His voice trailed off. He shuddered, and struggled to concentrate his breathing.

“Nightwing…” said Ravager, attempting, again, to approach him. I blocked her efforts.

“He’ll be fine,” I said, as assuringly as I could. “Just give him some space and don’t make a big deal over him. For now, you have a mission to get to.” I pointedly glared at the entirety of Gamma Squad. “All of you.” 

Then, unexpectedly, I heard M’gann’s voice, bespeaking me telepathically. 

“Batman— _is_ he all right?”

“He’ll be fine,” I replied, also mentally. “Like I said, don’t fuss over him. He won’t appreciate it and it won’t help anything.”

“Should I tell Oracle? Or Aqualad?”

“Not right this second,” I said. “Right now, you have a job. Better get to it. _Don’t_ say anything—to anyone. Leave that to me.”

“But—”

“M’gann,” I heard Dick’s voice, indicating that she had included him in our psychic conversation. “Please don’t say anything to Babs. Or Kaldur.”

“I can’t promise that, Dick.”

 _“Please. Please_ don’t say anything.”

There was a brief pause.

“Feel better, okay?”

Gamma Squad hesitantly walked away to have Oracle pick up where Nightwing left off, and at last exited the Watchtower altogether via Zeta Tube. Dick and I were left alone in the room. Kneeling beside him, I sighed heavily, knowing that there would be no more hiding from this point. Babs was only a short ways off in the control room, working the computers and for all practical purposes directing mission traffic. Once the job drew to a close, I made up my mind to inform her of Dick’s unfortunate circumstances, allowing her to deal with the team, then I would tell the League.

The heaving slowed after a time, and Dick carefully concentrated his breathing as he gripped the corners of the wastebin with trembling hands. I, as I always did, kept a hand between his shoulderblades, for whatever small comfort it was worth. 

“Done?” I asked, as he shakily straightened his arms.

He shook his head. “Don’t know yet,” he whispered, his voice weak and hoarse. “…Pretty sure I just emessed a fucking Pop Tart from the third grade.”

And just like that, he, again, was violently sick, projectiling indeterminate liquid into the bin. It was an alarming sight. He had been constantly plagued with nausea and vomiting, equally as much the fault of the trial compounds as of the chemo, but thus far, I had not seen him quite this ill. When it, again, paused, he leaned his head into the edge of the trashcan, no longer bothering to work on meditative breathing. I saw tears leaking down his cheeks from behind the mask as he leaned to sit back. His hands slackened on the edge of the wastebin. And just like that, he lay down on his back, smack in the middle of the floor. 

To my increasing fright, he was visibly laboring to breathe, sweat pouring from his waxy, sallow skin in sheets. Blood seeped from his nostrils. His body, in moments, went from trembling, to being completely wracked with tremors. I reached out to him, shocked at the heat that radiated from his flesh in palpable waves. Still worse, he appeared to be losing consciousness, his head lolling drunkenly as I drew him onto my lap, supporting his weight on my arm. 

“Dick,” I hissed, trying to keep him awake. I snapped my fingers at him, then gently slapped at his cheek, until his eyes fluttered open. “Good. Okay. Whatever you do, stay awake. Don’t drop off.” 

I raised Oracle via communicator. 

“What’s up, Bats?” she said. 

“I’m taking Nightwing to the hospital,” I told her. “Can’t use the med-lab here, it’s not equipped properly. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Batman, what the hell is going on? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, Oracle,” I replied honestly, rising and struggling to get a good grip on Nightwing’s shaking, dead weight. I held back a curse when I saw that he was no longer conscious. “But it looks bad. I’ll check in shortly.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“Gotham General. Look, I know you have a mission to run. But if you could keep an eye on my locator signal and hack the traffic lights to ensure we get a straight shot of green lights there from the penthouse, I’d be grateful.”

“Count on it,” she said. “Got the systems drawn up now.”

“Appreciate it. Batman out.” 

I sprinted to the Gotham Zeta Tube, and after bursting out of its mouth into the alleyway framing the penthouse I keep downtown, I rushed Dick inside. I had briefly actually considered saying to hell with it and showing up at the hospital in full-blown costume, but I knew that he would never forgive me if I blew our cover for his sake. I ditched the suits into the appropriate, heavily locked down storage units, and with surprisingly steady hands, threw civilian clothes on both of us. I gave Alfred a call and in one breath detailed the situation to him, and then, wrapping Dick’s shaking form in a spare blanket, ran into the sublevel garage. I kept a couple of vehicles there, and for that night’s purposes, I utilized the fastest and most conspicuous car I had in the hopes that through drawing attention to myself by speeding, I could at least gain a police escort, freeing Oracle, as I veritably flew to the emergency room. 

Traffic was light enough that I was able to thread it without much incident, and as promised, I hit every green light— _Thank you, Oracle—_ and made it to the hospital in minutes. I left the car in a clearly marked no-parking zone, not giving a damn about the vehicle at that point—they could have cubed it for all I cared. Carrying Dick’s shuddering body in my arms, I burst into the waiting room. Past me, at the front desk, a woman argued with the receptionist about her health insurance coverage. In spite of our dramatic entrance, neither of them even glanced up. Instead, they continued to bicker about whether or not an emergency stay came with a fee on the woman’s coverage.

“Excuse me, but I think my son is a little sicker than her insurance plan,” I snapped, not caring any more about being rude than I did about the car. 

The receptionist looked up, and her jaw fell. With a few words, she leapt up from her seat and ran through the doors to the hospital itself, and scant moments later, returned with a gaggle of nurses, who took his name, asked a bunch of questions, ordered me to fill out admission paperwork, and rushed him into the back. I stood, feeling, for the first time since that night in the alley as a kid, completely helpless. I slowly, methodically, collected and filled out the necessary paperwork as Dick’s next-of-kin as I was told, and then, sat back to wait. 

For what seemed the life cycle of the universe, I sat in the waiting room, staring at the television as it ran some inane sitcom on an incessant marathon, broken up by the same commercials repeated with equal unremittingness. Looking back, I suppose I can’t complain. At least it drowned out the horrible Kentucky Derby of thoughts that galloped through my mind. 

Company, finally, unexpectedly, came in the form of Babs, Tim, Conner, M’gann and Artemis, all in their civilian identities. 

“Hey,” said Tim, a little awkwardly. He took a seat beside me. “How’s he doing? Any news?”

I shook my head.

“Bruce,” said M’gann, sitting down beside me. “It’s probably time we talk.”

Then, her telepathic voice, inside my head. 

“I’ve linked us up so we can really discuss what’s going on without having to worry about anyone overhearing,” she said. “But… we know you’ve had some secrets you’ve been keeping from us. And the League.”

“Sorry, Bruce,” said Tim, glancing at Barbara. “But we looked into it.”

Babs sat in her chair, her arms folded around herself. I noticed her shirt, one I clearly recalled Dick picking out for her years ago, when they were in the Mathletes group in high school together. It sported a lion with a bow-tie and glasses, and the caption: “If I said I wasn’t a nerd, I’d be lion.” Barbara had loved it, and for the longest period, wore it in every moment of her free time. That she wore it now gave me a heavy feeling.

“We know what’s wrong with Dick,” she said. She kept her eyes trained on the floor. “…I told the Team. So… everyone’s clear enough on the details. I haven’t said anything to the League, though, so far.”

“I’ll deal with the League,” I told her. I sighed, mentally, and aloud. “How’s the Team?”

“About as well as can be expected,” said Babs. “Still kind of trying to absorb everything. It’s a lot to take in.”

I nodded. “Where are Kaldur and Rose?”

“Rose took off after she heard,” said Tim. “Went off the grid and just rabbited. We have no idea where she is.” He worried at a thread coming loose at the hem of his shorts. “…She took it pretty hard.”

“We all did,” said Artemis, her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m guessing she’ll be back soon, just needs some time to herself to process everything. Kaldur’s in Atlantis, seeing if there’s anything he can turn up that might help.” She frowned at the floor. “…Although he said it’s unlikely he’ll find anything.”

I nodded. “We’ve exhausted every avenue here on the surface, as well. Thenagaryen medicine won’t do any good against cancers—it’s been attempted already, with unfavorable results. Their sorcerers have not been able, even when pressed, to determine a single spell that would slow the growth of metastasizing cells even by a small margin. Amazonian potions are so potent they’ll kill him, even if not right away, and even if they cure his condition. And… they’re not real interested in helping mankind, anyway.”

“What about the mystic arts?” asked M’gann. “Zatanna knows some spells of healing. Can’t they help?” 

I shook my head. “Healing spells of the magnitude required to heal such an illness are fatal to the spell-caster. Zatanna could heal him—”

“But at a cost,” Artemis finished.

Conner inclined his head. “Which Dick would never stand for.”

“Exactly. And even the experimental drugs Star Labs provided to use in conjunction with the chemo as a trial aren’t going to be a cure, not in this case. Though… I suppose they’re a small blessing. Without them, we’d probably have lost him by now.”

A dismal stillness stole over the room as the last echoes of these funereal words faded into noiselessness.

“Bruce,” I heard Conner say. “How are _you_ holding up? I don’t think anyone’s asked how you’re doing.”

I sighed, again.

“About as well as can be expected,” I replied, echoing Babs. 

Barbara leaned closer to me, and laid a hand on my wrist, causing me to look up. 

“Listen,” she said. “I know it’s a little weird coming from a former protégé. But… if you need to talk, or you need help, or a shoulder, anything—we’re all here, Bruce. No one’s going to judge you if you need an ear.” 

“I’ll pass for now, Babs,” I said. “But… thank you.”

“We moved your car, by the way,” she said, half-smiling, even through the worry in her eyes. I felt an urge to chuckle over the fact that I had forgotten to lock it, and that they had obviously hot-wired it to spare me having to deal with the thing being impounded.

We waited without speaking, then, and although I didn’t particularly feel like interacting, it was oddly comforting to have company in that sterile, too-bright waiting room. We sat listening to the same sit-com and commercials over and over, until the infomercials mercifully took over the network to break the rhythm. The entire night passed in varying phases of silence and smatterings of conversation, until sleep overtook some. The morning news eventually woke my dozing or fazed companions. 

I tuned in, as I always did.

“Reports of increased volcanic activity in areas from Hawaii to as far off as Africa have been pouring in from all around the globe, leaving volcanologists and geologists alike scratching their heads and puzzling over the strange phenomenon. Whether or not it pertains to global warming is a subject of controversy—”

“Richard Grayson? Are you his next-of-kin?”

A woman in a white overcoat and teal hospital scrubs approached us, a clipboard and pile of papers in the crook of her arm. According to the tag attached to a lanyard around her neck, her name was Conchita Ayala, the doctor on duty that night. 

“Yes,” I said, standing and following her as she took me aside. “How is he?”

“Well, he’s not _good_ , but he’s alive, and he’s made some progress,” she said. “He came down with neutropenic enterocolitis, or typhlitis—”

“Is that serious?” M’gann asked from where she sat, even as terror shot through me.

“I’m afraid so,” said Ayala, with a glance at M’gann. She returned to me her full attention. “That’s not to say start worrying—at least, not yet. Things have gotten better in recent years, and this was caught early. We’ve transferred him to the ICU, and have him on practically an entire pharmacy of antibiotics and anti-fungals. We've also given him several units and a platelet transfusion. The gentamicin seems to have had some effect so far… his temperature’s gone down a little, and his levels have stabilized, meaning it looks like we might be able to avoid surgery in the end. So for now, let’s hope for that.” She shuffled through the papers. “He is still in serious condition—although we revived him with success, he coded not long after he was brought here. It’s unlikely that he’ll come around any time soon.” She looked at me. “Are you his father?”

“Adoptive, yes.”

“Okay. I understand that he has acute myeloid leukemia, that has since inoperably spread to the pancreas, spleen, blood, and lymph nodes?”

I nodded.

“Hmm…” She frowned. “He’s receiving trial chemotherapy?”

Again, I nodded.

“I see,” she said, glancing at her clipboard, which, I saw, sported the same paperwork I had filled out earlier. “He’s been remaining pretty active since he started treatment?”

“Yeah,” I said, and by her tone, I felt like a teen about to be scolded by a disgruntled caretaker. “You need to understand, about the only solution for Richard is a leash.”

“Well, from here on out, I’d suggest you use one,” she said. “It only takes one of these infections to speed things along, not to be morbid. After this, he will _have_ to rest in bed from now on, or at least until his primary care practitioner says otherwise. Just how active has he been?”

“Active,” I conceded. “He hasn’t really changed his routine much.”

“Well, that will have to change somewhat from here on, I’m afraid.”

“Can we see him?” asked Babs, from behind me.

Dr. Ayala looked past me to the assembled group, and her lips thinned a little. 

“I’m afraid not,” she said, apologetic, but stern. “The ICU is family only.”

Babs leveled on her a recalcitrant look. “We _are_ family,” she insisted, her jaw set. 

Dr. Ayala shook her head. “ _Immediate_ family, then.”

I looked helplessly back at Babs, and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

I left the waiting room, following Dr. Ayala through the halls, up the elevator, and into the ICU, where a nurse gave me a mask and a pair of gloves. I put them on as I followed both nurse and doctor, and came to a dead halt when I reached Dick's bedside. He lay completely limp and heavy, appearing inhumanly small and fragile beneath the folds of the blanket. He was jammed full of tubes and connected to multiple IVs and machines. His face was ashen, completely gray and blue-tinged in places, his lips white and mottled. His hair, coal-black and lackluster, lay flat across his forehead. Were he not hooked up to a rumbling ventilator, that kept him breathing as he lay, stagnant upon the narrow hospital cot, I’d have thought him dead. I sat down beside him, and slowly covered his unmoving hand with mine. The heart monitor beeped steadily, reassuringly. With the knowledge that he would not feel it, and would not remember it, I drew his hand up, clasped in both of mine as though in prayer, and leaned my forehead against our twined fingers. Dr. Ayala silently backed out of the room.

I sat there until visiting hours had wrapped up nearly twelve hours later. Occasionally I drifted off, with my head on the heel of my hand. When I did sleep, it was a restless doze, plagued with nightmares. I did not wish to speak it, but I knew, inwardly, that this incident was the beginning of the end. 

As such, time to talk. Telling the League was an uncomfortable exploit. Since my mother and father were killed, I’ve felt unsettled by attempted consolations or unsolicited advice, and I was inclined to believe that the response from the League would be largely characterized by these same things. However, I steeled myself against these expectations, and didn’t mince words when I divulged the diagnosis in its entirety, including Dick’s life expectancy, although each word I spoke seemed a death sentence. 

My formulations regarding the reaction of the League were proven to be wrong when, instead of offering awkward gestures of comfort and hollow words of wisdom, the Leaguers to an individual steadily, and with a pragmatic, matter-of-fact air, pledged their dedication to help and support us in our time of trial. The sympathy expressed was heartfelt and genuine—enough that I felt all at once ill-at-ease, and solaced. Superman even drew me aside to tell me, personally, that none of them had forgotten why there was still a League—and a Team—at all, and that they would stand by us, providing anything that we might need. He continued, vowing that we would see Darkseid’s invasion stamped out.

“Nightwing’s… His _sacrifice_ , what he's done,” he said, soberly. “It _won’t_ be in vain, Batman. It won’t.”

This unexpected response was moving, especially in light of the fact that I knew this news to be personal to each member. Dick was only nine years old when I introduced him to the life. As such, each of my compatriots felt a particular protectiveness over him, never quite relinquished by many, even in his adulthood. Black Canary, I knew, harbored especially strong feelings of maternity where Dick was concerned, having taken a highly active role in mentoring him, and also in counseling him in the immediate months following the deaths of his parents, being wrested from his old home in Haly’s Circus, and suddenly thrust into the precarious life of a hero, fostered by a man who was for all purposes a complete stranger back then. It did not escape my notice that, after a time, she stepped out into the hall, where Green Arrow followed her.

I also was not unaware of Zatanna, who withdrew to sit by herself, staring off into space, not moving, not speaking. The set of her back was a stiff plank, her shoulders hunched as though in pain. Every approach, she pushed away. 

Later, I learned that she left, and sat up with Dick in his room at the ICU for the whole of the day and night. If not for her mystical abilities to provide her cover, she would have been in some trouble with the hospital staff. My heart, in its way, went out to all of his friends and teammates, but I found that I experienced the deepest kinship with Zatanna. As a teen, she endured the loss of her father to Fate, and in the shockwaves of Zatara’s tragic act of self-sacrifice, she found that Dick seemed to understand her best, and, as such, they spent just about every waking moment together in those first few years. I was well aware of much that transpired between the two, since neither was overly subtle about much of anything, their romantic exploits not the least of all. First love aside, I knew that Dick had been a great comfort to her following her loss, and that, after the teen romance fizzled out, they remained very close. Losing him would be a significant blow, and I, having once lost everything myself, felt for her. Even though Zatara was held locked away within the mask of Fate, there was a bizarre sense that he was still there, somewhere. Dick, on the other hand, would be gone, and for good.

As Mab listens, she continues to frown, her slender arms crossed over her chest. The gossamer fabric of her gown flutters in the violent wind. 

“Forgive me, mortal,” she says, “but I understand that a vast many of your kind suffer this ailment? Why is it that you are so keen on preserving the life of one, and yet so unconcerned over the millions of others?”

“Please, Queen Mab,” says Zatanna suddenly. “We beseech you for your help because we care for him, yes—but that doesn’t mean that we care any less about all the rest who suffer, of course we do. We’ve made countless charitable efforts to champion this cause. _He_ even volunteered his time when he was healthy to care personally for the people afflicted with it. We just… want to ease his suffering, and… make him whole again.”

“For your own benefit, I believe,” Mab whispers. “Allow me to make a query of you both. Has he, himself, accepted his fate?” 

I am silent, and Zatanna, defeated, looks down, her eyes shining in the shimmering light emanating from the palace walls. It is difficult to speak the truth to Mab, for fear that we, again, will be met with refusal from our last, best hope. 

“…Yes,” I tell her, remembering that terrible conversation with a vivid, stark, heartbreaking clarity. 

When Dick was, at last, released from the hospital after weeks of a horrible roommate and a generally miserable stay, I drove home with an air of vast relief to Wayne Manor. While en route, I asked after when his treatment was scheduled to recontinue, so that I could plan around it. The day was brutally hot, a clinging, wet velvet blanket of an afternoon that boiled the car even as I blasted the air conditioning. I looked over at him when he didn’t answer right away.

“Dick?” I said, wondering if he’d heard me. 

He was quiet for a moment more, gazing out of the window. 

“I declined any more treatment,” he said finally.

I jerked my head to stare at him, my foot sliding off of the gas pedal. I came to only when the driver behind me laid on the horn like his life depended on making it to his destination ten seconds faster. I pulled off to the side and hit the hazard lights. 

“What?” I snapped, having little else in my repertoire. “Why?”

“It’s not worth it,” said Dick. He leaned against the door frame and closed his eyes. 

“You _can’t_ ,” I said. “If you decline further treatment, it’s barely even a month before—”

“I know.”

“Then why would you do it?” I demanded.

Dick sighed, and opened his eyes. “Like I said. It’s not worth it.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Just isn’t.”

I sat, seething, accosted by a thousand thoughts, unable to single out even one with any definition. Millions of words pulled at my tongue, none effectively parting my lips to speak. 

At last, audible, word-forming sounds made their way past my gritted teeth.

“Dick,” I said, “please. Don’t do this.”

He looked over at me. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t give up.”

“I’m not giving up,” he said. 

“Then what do _you_ call it?”

He turned away, still leaning against the door frame. The afternoon light reflected off of the cannula where it looped over his ears. He sighed. 

“I don’t know, acceptance, maybe,” he told me. He peered out the window, and as the sunlight, hot and oppressive, beat down on his face through the windshield, I noticed, even more than I had previously, just how frail and wasted he appeared. He hadn’t lost all of his hair, once thick to the point of luxury, but it had begun to shed in handfuls some time ago, and now, it had lost all traces of its former luster, reduced to drab patches so sparse that his scalp shown through. His striking eyes, indigo in some lights, tanzanite in others, had grown dull, and sunken into their darkened sockets. I could visibly pick out his collarbones through his T-shirt, even the outline of the humerus through the flesh of his upper arm. It was a piercing image, given that mere months before, he had been broad-shouldered, well-muscled, openly capable, a deceptive picture of peak human health. 

“The hell’s _that_ supposed to mean, acceptance?” My voice was rising.

He scratched at his nostrils beneath the prongs. “…I’m tired, Bruce,” he murmured.

I fought for the right words.

“I know you are. Believe me, I do. But Dick, you’ve never been one to back down from a fight,” I said. I stared at the speedometer. “…I know it’s been a struggle. I understand how tired you are. But you _have_ to keep fighting. You can’t just lie down and die.”

He gave me a wan smile, and laid a hand on mine. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“So what _are_ you doing?” I asked, astonished to hear my own voice break. My throat abruptly closed around a baseball that I couldn’t remember swallowing. After all of these months of retaining strength, exacting calm, and repressing every emotion to ventilate them onto hapless enemies, I was one wrong heartbeat away from, at last, coming undone, and I knew it. Dick did, as well, evidenced by his hand closing more tightly over mine. I knew he meant the gesture to be comforting, but it had the opposite effect. The weak grasp of his fingers only reminded me of how little I had physically reached out to comfort him since he fell ill, and really, in truth, since I came to adopt him. And here he was now, reaching out to reassure me, when it should have been the reverse.

“Listen,” he said gently. “For right now, I just want to focus on spending as much quality time with my loved ones as I can.” There was a pause. “Can you understand that?”

“You’re not going to have any sort of quality existence without treatment,” I insisted. “All in one second, you’ll go downhill, and then in the next, you’ll be gone.”

He nodded, and did not release my hand. “I know. I know I won’t have much time left. But… sitting in that goddamn office stuck full of tubes, getting barraged with Stone’s endless questions when I’m so tired I can’t even comprehend Big Bird, puking in every corner of the mansion, shitting into a colostomy bag, not even being able to shower or make it to the toilet by myself… Bruce. Come on. That’s not how I want to spend the remainder of my days here, even if it means giving me more time.”

“How _are_ you planning on spending this time, then, huh? Dead? Quality time, what." I snorted. "You think your pals are going to party with your ghost? And really—you think you’re _not_ going to be doing any of the things you just mentioned if you turn down any more treatment? You’ll only be doing all of the above, just so stoned on morphine you won’t even recognize your own pants. _God._ Don’t be stupid.”

He finally let go of my hand, and stared ahead, out of the windshield. He heaved a sigh.

“Bruce,” he said, rubbing at his forehead. “Please just stop.”

In that moment, everything inside me exploded in a cacophonous wave that burst out of every pore on my body, and I turned to him, rising out of my seat, my vision broken by red streaks of rage.

“I couldn’t do anything about my parents,” I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice grating against my throat. “I couldn’t do anything about yours. I couldn’t do anything about Jason. But I _can_ do something about you. I _can_. I can help you. But you _have_ to meet me halfway here. Because if you don’t—” I broke off, then slammed the heel of my hand into the steering wheel. “God _dammit_ , Dick. I bore my parents. I bore Jason. But I _can’t_ bear you.” My whole body began to shake. “I know you talked some garbage about how I saved you, all those years ago. You said as much. Didn’t you?” He nodded mutely. “Okay. That’s all well and good. Fine. Think what you want. But… Since that night in the alley… I couldn’t find _anything_ that brought my life any meaning. To hell with the Batman, to hell with saving the world one misguided hoodlum or criminal mastermind at a time, to hell with charity donations, to hell with benefits, to hell with funding morally defensible enterprises—none of that meant a damn thing to me in the end. The only thing that has _ever_ brought my life—and all of the above—any meaning since I watched my parents gunned down behind that theater was petitioning the state to adopt you… and being granted that privilege.” He stared, unspeaking, at me. “ _You_ saved _me,_ Dick. Watching you, and seeing how you’ve weathered all of the storms in your life, I really think you’d have been fine, whether I’d taken you in or not. But… _I_ wouldn’t have been. _I_ needed you. I _need_ you _now._ You have to realize that. All that I am now… it’s all because—”

I, again, punched the steering wheel, feeling the heat rising from my gut and into my face, and I dropped my forehead to my clenched fists, gripping the steering wheel so crushingly tight that I could hear the sound of the leather creaking beneath my fingers. 

“Bruce.”

I threw the car into gear and whipped out into traffic. If I tried to speak, I would disintegrate into tears, and there would be no going back from that. So, I focused on the road ahead, and steadied my breathing, feeling the baseball transfiguring itself into a golf ball, then into an uncomfortable sharpness. 

“Bruce,” he said, again. 

“Just don’t,” I growled, flooring the accelerator. He sighed, and leaned against the door frame, silently watching Gotham roll into woodlands as we sped toward the mansion. 

I stalled the car in the driveway, violently yanked the emergency brake to set it, and ripped the keys out of the ignition. I stormed inside, not even bothering to look over my shoulder. Alfred, heading outside, greeted me; however, I ignored him and continued on my way into the house. I slammed the door with such a force that I was astounded when the chandelier in the entryway failed to dislodge itself from the ceiling. I roared into the parlor, and sat with a muted thump on the sofa. I ground the heels of my hands into my temples, then ran my palms over my hair to rest on the back of my neck, as I struggled to calm the maelstrom that roiled within. 

I heard the echoing sound of the door closing, then Alfred’s voice in the foyer. Queries after whether Dick needed further help walking, what, if anything, he felt up for eating, what time hospice was scheduled to arrive in the morning. I grew angrier, feeling that I should have been the one helping him inside and asking him questions, but knowing that unless I kissed the ground that Dick walked on for a solid week after my stunning display outside, Alfred was unlikely even to welcome me into the same room. I was then, instead, assaulted with guilt, and I cursed my outburst in the car. I drew my hands down, and sat back, pressing my fists into my knees. I closed my eyes, fighting the rabid pack of dogs that were so many emotions, clamoring to be let loose. 

There was a compression on the cushion beside me, and before I could fully open my eyes, a weight leaned against my shoulder. I didn’t have to look to know it was Dick. I involuntarily sat rigid and still, at first. Undeterred by this initial lack of response, he stubbornly shifted closer. 

“Sorry. I’m just… not real big on hugs,” I warned him, my discomfort escalating. 

“ _I_ am. And I need one. Get over it,” he told me. 

“…Might not be a good one.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

I stared at the floor for a moment, then, finally, lifted an arm, to wrap it awkwardly around his shoulders. In reply, he laid an arm across my chest. Reminded, again, that I had never once hugged Dick in all of the years that I had known him, I determined to let go of my unease, and drew him closer, resting my head against his. He quivered, and dissolved, and then the next thing I knew, he had buried his face in my chest, crying unabashedly. I felt painfully, debilitatingly sick to my stomach, my chest burned, and my vision muddied as I fought the urge to join him. But I kept it together, and held him as tightly as I dared, aware of every bone beneath my touch, until his tears slowly began to abate, and he, at last, settled down. I did not release him. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered into my shoulder, after a time. 

I shook my head. “Don’t be. I’m the one who made the scene.”

He was silent for a moment, then he, too, shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

For a little while, the only sound was that of the grandfather clock as it ticked, and the occasional sound of the wind outside. A storm was due that evening, and the air was heavy, full of potential energy, even inside. 

“Listen. If it means that much to you… I’ll keep up with treatment,” said Dick suddenly, breaking the silence. He swiped at his eyes. “I’ll do it.”

I was quiet, watching the pendulum of the clock as it swung back and forth, steady and sure, like a heartbeat.

“It’s your decision, Dick,” I said heavily. “I know I don’t have the right to try changing your mind because of my own feelings or because it’s what I think is best.”

He sighed, and leaned in closer, and I wondered at how I failed to go completely to water. 

“Bruce, you need to understand. I can’t keep burdening you like this,” he said. When I started to protest, he pulled away, and raised a hand. “No. Don’t say I haven’t been—I know I have.”

“Okay, but you _aren’t_ burdening me,” I told him. “I would never call it that. Don’t even think that for one second.” 

“If you say so,” he mumbled, reassuming his position. “Either way… I just can’t _do_ this anymore. I can’t stand putting you through this. I can’t stand putting _any_ of you through this.” He drew in a breath. “And… God. I don’t want to die at the hospital. I’d rather be here, at home.”

These words were a constriction around my chest.

“You can’t really control that, Dick. And… whether you’re at home or not… you need to realize that you’ll have a _lot_ less time,” I said. “You do understand that.”

“Yeah,” he assured me. “I do. And… I mean, yeah, I’m a little scared, but Bruce, it’s okay. It’s really okay.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s not.”

A buzz suddenly emanated from my private League communicator, and with a curse, I moved to produce it from my back pocket. 

“Not now,” I muttered, and looked helplessly at Dick. “I’m sorry.”

He sat back, leaning into the couch cushions. “It’s all right. Duty calls,” he said. “Wish I could join you.”

“Hospice isn’t coming until tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

I cursed again, and placed the communicator pod in my ear.

“Batman,” I snapped. 

“Hey, Bats, it’s Superman,” said Clark through the pod. “We need you in Metropolis as soon as possible. Poison Ivy’s gotten some sort of amped up version of the Bane serum and has a ton of—get ready for it—sentient _vines_ roaming around and making a _big_ mess. We’re all fighting these things and it seems like as quickly as we kill one thicket of them, ten more thickets pop up in its place. We need a technical solution, and quick.”

I muted the communicator and swore descriptively in Mandarin, making Dick cover his mouth with his hand to muffle his laughter.

“Oracle hasn’t given you a solution?” I asked Clark.

“No, nothing that’s worked,” he said. “I know you requested leave, and I’m sorry. But we need you out here, now.”

“Fine. But someone’s going to have to get out here and cover keeping an eye on Nightwing,” I said. 

“Don’t you have a… an assistant?”

“It’s a two-man job.”

“All right,” said Clark. “Just a second.” 

“Bats, I’ll be fine here,” said Dick, scratching again at where the cannula met his nostrils. “You really don’t need to worry about finding me a babysitter or anything.” 

“Rocket can be spared,” said Clark through the pod. 

“Roger that,” I said. 

“Good. Sending coordinates now.”

“ETA three minutes,” I said. “Batman out.”

I rose and turned to Dick. “Raquel’s going to come stay here with you. You sure you’ll be okay?”

He nodded. “You worry too much.”

“I find you and Raquel drunk on the roof again, and I swear—”

He laughed as I turned to leave. “That was _one_ time, Bruce. We were teenagers. You left half a liquor store readily available in the pantry after that Wayne Enterprises New Year’s party…”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, turning the key to the grandfather clock, which, in fact, opened the hidden door that accessed the Bat Cave. “I just didn’t expect to find two apparently well-behaved and trustworthy kids drunk and dancing buck naked on my roof.”

He was still laughing. “ _Man_ , that was a fun night.”

“For _you_ , maybe,” I grumbled.

“You be careful, okay?” he said, as the door slid shut behind me. 

The night in question had actually been anything but fun in my opinion, having added to the smattering of gray hairs amid my normal black and also having required a severely straining amount of secrecy regarding the League, the Team, and not least of all, Raquel’s father. Considering that it was extremely unusual behavior (blessedly unrepeated since) for both Raquel and Dick, I helped them keep it under wraps, although I sadistically sent them hungover up to the roof to clean up the bottles, puke, condom wrappers and God only knew what else the following morning. As far as I know now, Dick and Ra quel are, for the most part, pretty “straight edge.” Equally, their brief courtship was well-characterized by that one night—based entirely upon fun and low maintenance. Raquel is now married to a different man, and she and Dick maintain a close friendship (my foster son’s uncanny ability to remain friends with his exes borders on supernatural.) I, at least, knew that he would be in good hands with her, although I desperately wanted nothing more than to remain at home, where I, myself, could care for him. 

No could do, however, duty called. I suited up, forwarded a packet of info for Raquel to the Watchtower, and then Zeta Tubed to Metropolis. I was met with a scene of bedlam. An infestation of charcoal-colored, apparently autonomous vines and branches had, as Clark had said, overtaken the city, twisting and writhing through structures, vehicles, streetlights, statues, concrete, anything. These vines had already bound innumerable city residents, squeezing their victims like boa constrictors, even as Leaguers fought to free each captive. One vine shot through an armored National Guard tank like a blade through a blob of tofu not ten feet from me. I hurled a line of electric disks in rapid succession at it, satisfied that the shoot withdrew when the charges detonated. Although the branches seemed to be lone entities, separate from each other, I knew very well what they were, and, my ire rising, I realized that it was going to be a long night. 

“Listen,” I said, accessing the main communicator line. “As with all plants, where there are branches or shoots, there’s a stem. I’m going to run a few scans to see if I can target its location and we’ll move in—we rip this tree up by the roots, and the whole thing’s over.”

“Got any plans on how to break through all these vines?” demanded Flash, streaking by me in a barely perceived wash of red and yellow. 

“Just keep pounding at them, keep them busy and away from civilians the best you can,” I said, drawing up the scanner I kept in my belt, and running the molecular scan on the nearest vine. I put out a gorgeous display of acrobatics that might even have impressed John Grayson had he witnessed it as I attempted to avoid the branch’s efforts to encircle and crush me in the seconds it took to employ the scan. 

“Trunk and roots look like they’re about 300 meters west of my location,” I said, again accessing the main communicator line. “Should be right around if not right in the middle of the fountain that’s in the northeast corner of the park. I’m en route now.” 

“Roger,” came the voice of Superman, who, even with his plethora of superhuman abilities, had a hell of a job keeping up with the swarm of branches. “But I’ve flown over that area at least a hundred times and didn’t see anything even remotely resembling a stem or a trunk.”

“Think of this like kudzu,” I said irritably. “Fat leaves, small stems. And frankly, Superman, I wouldn’t be shocked if our enemies are well aware of your abilities and that thing is growing out of a giant lead flowerpot.”

“Noted,” he said, his voice coming out in equally irritated tones. 

To fight my way through the thicket of branches was horribly reminiscent of _The Evil Dead,_ but entirely less amusing. I was surrounded and continually larruped by the twisting vines, groped and pulled and thrashed by them, until I ran out of electric discs, Plastique putty grenades, sonic generators, in fact, every tool that I had at my disposal, and I was reduced to hacking and slashing at the vines with my custom-forged, retractable blade, naturally referred to as the “Bat Sword.” 

As I battled the salvo of branches, I was completely unconscious of the assistance I received from my allies; I was blind, deaf and mute to all of them. All I saw was the facsimile of Dick’s collarbones through his shirt, all I felt were the ridges of his bones beneath my touch, all I heard was the sound of him crying. I fought with a ferocity that startled even me as I lashed out at the onslaught of vines, each one becoming the physical manifestation of all of the images, the sensations, and the sounds that threatened to unravel me from the inside out. 

At last, after my movements had finally become stiff and robotic, scarcely registering in my tiring brain, I performed an almost a linebacker-esque block against the edge of an especially thick limb, and spun right into the heart of the labyrinth created by Poison Ivy’s twisted creation.

I drew up, the blade momentarily dropping to my side, as I appraised the situation. For a split second, in the shape’s blinding bioluminescence, I couldn’t tell if what I was dealing with was, in fact, Poison Ivy herself, or some unfortunate human overtaken by these horrid plants. The glowing figure spilled out of a lead, overturned basin, with only its limp, outstretched arms and hunched head and shoulders visible over the lip of the bowl. The vines roiled like a mess of snakes from its back and shoulders, crafting a sickening coppice that wriggled outward, growing in size and strength as it pushed its way from its source. I scanned the monstrous form, to learn that this figure was, indeed, human, and that although the body was dead, it had been overtaken by these vine creatures, infusing their own lives into the poor girl’s corpse to craft a collective heart. According to the scan, the focal point of the plants’ vital energy was housed in the furrowed out brain, accessed through the now hollow spinal cord. The small, tubular stem that wound up the burrowed vertebrae was the vines’ conduit to this vast, heavily condensed source of life. I realized that this glowing orb of energy depicted on my scanner would constitute the roots that I had mentioned to my colleagues, and that in order to uproot this particular plant, I would have to decapitate the host. In my moment of pause, a vine swiped me hard from behind, knocking me painfully to my front. Miraculously, I didn’t lose hold of the scanner or the sword. Before I could move to rise, Captain Marvel hauled me to my feet.

“You okay, Bats?” he asked. 

I shook his hand away, and readied my weapon. 

“There are no roots,” I said mechanically, “only an energy source in what was formerly the brain in that dead girl’s body. We’ll have to disconnect the source by removing the head.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look.” I thrust the scanner at him, then met a vine with the blade of the sword. “You tell me if you see anything that changes the situation.” 

“No way. There has to be something else that can be done—we can’t just defile someone’s body—”

Even as he spoke, through a parting in the branches that wove around us, we witnessed a glimpse of the street some seventy yards off. In the span of a breath, through that parting, we saw a man, screaming and uselessly struggling against the crushing hold of the vines that twined around him. Icon was there, desperately attempting to cordone the vines off with force fields, to no avail. The living ropes had burrowed, tick-like, into the man’s flesh, and, with a scream that was cut short, a branch twisted about his head with such a force that his skull caved and his eyeballs were forced from their sockets. 

The vines curtained themselves over the gruesome scene, and Captain Marvel, in horror, punched at them with his free hand, my scanner momentarily forgotten in his other. 

“There’s no time,” I hissed. “People are dying. And more will die unless we take out this one dead body.”

Leaving Captain Marvel to confront this unnerving truth, I was assaulted with branches, each stabbing at my face and neck with thorny, barbed feelers. I lashed out with the sword, encountering now thinner stems that threaded around me like a net. I sliced through them, severing them in single motions, and hurtled my way toward the figure that lay, lifeless, in the lead basin. Heedless of Captain Marvel’s cries behind me, I hefted the sword, and with one stroke slashed it through the neck in a spray of dark, dead blood mixed with livid, glowing green chlorophyll. There was a moment in which all things progressed in a slow, muffled manner, as though the whole grisly scene had been plunged underwater. 

Slowly, gradually, though, I became aware of the shaking ground, the screeching car alarms, the wailing sirens, the drumming helicopters, the pop and hiss of gunfire. I looked around me as the vines whirled, waving sightlessly through the air, and crashed, at last, to the ground with earth-shattering force. Twitching and thrashing, they seemed to scream without voices, pathetically wheeling and mewling, questing for help that would not come. I looked down, and, to my horror, saw vivid blossoms of lambent, lime green light beginning to seep in translucent rays from the gaping orifices of the grotesque head. With a frantic bound, I thrust the Bat Sword through the temple, just above the ear, plunging the blade into the soft, wet ground beneath. The light, I swear, writhed and bellowed in pain, reaching and stretching in its agony, until at last it blinked, pittered, and finally, went dark. 

I stood, every nerve alight, every muscle drawn taught as a harpstring. I pulled in one ragged breath after another, noticing suddenly that it was raining, a hot, humid, sticky rain that did not cool the suffocatingly warm earth. The luminescent chlorophyll, still variegated with the dead blood, swirled in the rapidly accumulating rain water. I stared, morbidly fascinated as I fought to catch my breath, only just becoming aware of the spasming muscles in my back and arms. 

Green Arrow came up beside me.

“Oh…” he said, taking in the bloody scene. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Batman. What the hell…”

“She was already dead,” I said flatly, and, pressing a boot into the pitiable jawline, withdrew the sword. “Nothing we could do for her.” 

“Why the hell’d you take her head off?!” he demanded. 

“The roots I mentioned over the communicator?” I said, and pointed to the severed head. “More like a heart. In there. The vines accessed it through a stem that ran up through the spinal cord and into what used to be her brain. I had to disconnect the source, and then destroy it.”

He relaxed slightly, but continued to frown. “Okay, but couldn’t something else have been done? I mean… what the hell are we going to tell her _family?”_

“There wasn’t time,” I said. “People were dying. It had to be done. As for her family…” I sighed. “You’ll just have to tell them the truth. Pray they don’t sue us. Although God knows they probably will. Along with the families of all the other dead bodies littering the streets right now.”

“God, what a mess,” said Ollie, gazing down at the body, then surveying the mass of vines that were strewn across the cityscape. 

Captain Marvel, in silence, handed me the scanner. I placed it back in my utility belt, and wiped the blade of the sword on the edge of my cape. The material was water resistant and flame retardant, so it wasn’t the best item to utilize in clean-up, but it functioned well enough. I hit the button to retract the blade back into the hilt, and holstered it. I realized, suddenly, that I was shaking violently, freezing even in spite of the muggy heat, and feeling moderately disoriented. 

“You know, Bats, you might want to head to the med-tent over there…” said Captain Marvel, studying me. “You don’t look too good.”

I drew in a shuddering breath, and shook my head. “It’s just shock. I can deal with it on my own.”

“Yeah, right,” said Ollie. “Come on, I’ll help you over.”

I shrugged his hands off. “I _have_ to figure out this woman’s identity. I _need_ to talk to her family.”

Zatanna, unexpectedly, showed up next to me. 

“No, you don’t,” she said softly. “I can perform a reconnective spell to at least deliver her back to her loved ones in one piece. No one has to know what happened here.” 

“It’s already been witnessed.” My own voice reverberated strangely in my thrumming ears.

She shook her head. “No, it hasn’t. I have veils up as we speak. Bats, seriously—go to the med-tent. I mean it. You look terrible. Your face is all smashed in and you’re bleeding all over the place.”

I swiped at my cheekbone, shocked to discover that I was, in fact, bleeding, and that the whole right side of my face was swollen and tender, sore to the touch.

“After you get looked at, you should really head home and get some rest,” said Ollie. He forcibly drew my arm across his shoulder, supporting my weight as we made our difficult way through the fallen vines. “Probably not the time to ask, but… How’s your boy doing?”

I shook my head. 

“Sorry.”

“I’m not going to the med-tent,” I announced to him, obstinately shoving him away. “I’m heading out, now.”

My vision blurred as the sky rotated nauseatingly overhead.

“No way,” he told me. “You need some serious help, pal.”

“I’ll do it myself,” I told him. “I’ve always stitched myself up.”

I stumbled, and he caught me. 

“Fair enough,” he said, “but at least let me help you get there. Where are you headed?”

“Bat Cave,” I replied. “I’ll be fine once I get through the Zeta Tube.”

I allowed him to assist me to the mouth of the transporter, and once I exited it, I fell to my knees inside the Bat Cave. 

Bloody, muck-laced, chlorophyll-streaked rain water dribbled from my body to filter over the ground in slow, seeking rivulets, reminiscent of the vines we had just fought and destroyed. 

“Oh, Master Bruce.”

I registered Alfred’s voice as I knelt there, locking up every muscle in an effort to quell the uncontrollable shaking, every breath sucked like jagged glass through my throat. Now aware of the wound to my face, it hurt with a burning, stinging, screaming pain. Alfred approached, kneeling down beside me, and helped me to my feet.

“Come, Master Bruce,” he said. “Let’s get you looked after.”

I nodded, and let him lead me to the med-lab, deep in the bowels of the cave. 

After countless stitches and satisfactory treatment for shock, I showered quickly, changed clothes, and headed up into the manor. I was absolutely, mind-numbingly exhausted, deep, deep into the marrow of my bones, but couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping, not yet. Alfred insisted that I at least give some rest a try, but not after I had attempted food first. 

I had no desire for either. I left Alfred as he broke off into the kitchen and went to the den, where I found Raquel, sitting with Dick’s head in her lap on the sofa. She looked away from the television, and smiled as she saw me enter.

“Hi,” she whispered, and taking care not to disturb her sleeping charge, extricated herself from her seat. As she approached me, she frowned. “Oh, wow, Bats, you look _horrible_. What happened?”

I shook my head. “Nothing serious. How was he?”

“All right,” she said. “A little up and down.” 

“Was everything okay?” I asked. 

“He was fine,” she assured me. “What happened to your _face?_ ”

“Like I said, nothing serious. Did he take his meds?”

She chuckled and nodded. “Oh, the ten thousand horse pills and that sticky crap he likes so much? Yeah, he did.”

“Did he eat?”

“…Not much. He got sick. But… All in all, it was an okay night, not a whole lot to report. He fell asleep not too long ago.” 

“Well, you’re not drunk on the roof, so that’s something, at least.”

“Oh, my god…” She covered her face with her hand, grinning. “I was really hoping you’d forgotten about that…”

“Good luck,” I told her. “I had to hide that from your father. I’ll hold it over your head for the rest of your life.” She laughed. “How does your husband feel about you being here?”

She snorted. “Bruce, if he was that insecure, I wouldn’t have married him,” she said. “Speaking of that. You look exhausted. You should probably take this opportunity and get some sleep. I’ll stick around a little longer so you can do that.”

I shook my head. “No, thanks, though, Raquel. You’ve been more than helpful enough as it is.”

She waved a hand. “Oh nah, I was happy to do it. Need me for anything else?”

“Maybe help me get him to his room,” I said. “I don’t really want him sleeping on the couch.”

She nodded. “All right. Bruce… are you sure you don’t need to talk or anything? Because if you do, you know I’ll listen…”

“I’m fine, Raquel.”

She frowned, and looked over at Dick. “You know, I’m not so sure. Just so you know, he cried, a _lot_. And he said you were having a real hard time with things, too. So… want to talk?”

I shook my head. Approaching Dick where he lay on the couch, I gazed down at him for a moment. We had both had a bit of a rocky night, apparently. I slid my arms as slowly and unintrusively beneath his knees and shoulders as I could, and lifted him up. He shifted a bit, but did not wake. I led Raquel up the main stairwell, and down the hallway to Dick’s old bedroom. 

Raquel flipped the light on, and drew the sheets back. I laid him down, careful not to jostle him too much, and placed the oxygen pack on the nightstand. He stirred, then woke. 

“Oh, crap, how long have I been out?” Dick asked, lifting a hand to his head. “Ugh. Deadbeat _Horrorfest_ partner. Sorry, Raquel…”

She shook her head. “Oh, no worries. You didn’t fall asleep that early.”

“What happened to your face?” he asked me, concerned. His voice was barely over a hoarse, guttural whisper.

“Nothing big,” I said dismissively. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” he said, although his voice sounded anything but. “Umm…You don’t look so good, Bruce.”

“Would you quit worrying about me, please?” I huffed irritably.

His lips quirked impishly. “Nope.” 

“Typical. You need anything else?” said Raquel, chortling.

He patted her hand, and shook his head.

“You positive?”

He nodded. “Thanks, though.”

She stroked his hair. “Sure, baby.” She dropped a kiss on his forehead, then stepped back. “Well, I guess I’m out of here, then. Call me if you need anything, got it?”

I nodded, and she left. After the door closed, I lifted my eyebrows at him.

“Baby?” I said, smirking. 

“Shut up,” he smiled, his eyes closing. “You should probably hit the hay, old man.”

I drew up a chair from the desk by the window, and sat down, perched next to his bed like a banged-up sentinel. 

“Nope,” I said, repeating his own words back to him. “I’m sitting right here, and you’re going to deal with it.”

He opened his eyes, and frowned at me. “You know, I’m being serious, here. You look like crap.”

 _“I_ look like crap,” I said, adopting an offended expression. _“You_ look like crap.”

“Well, yeah,” he said with a weak grin. “I’m dying, remember? What’s your excuse?”

“That’s not funny, Dick,” I snapped.

He shrugged. “Whatever you say, Bruce. In all seriousness, though—get repleted. I can’t even stand looking at you. Go to bed.”

I sighed, but nodded, and stood. “Yeah, all right, then, have it your way. Alfred set up an intercom system earlier—it’s right here on the nightstand, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to use it, okay? You can raise my cell phone, too.” 

“Hey.”

He caught my arm as I turned to leave, and I looked down at him.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

“Just… you know, for taking care of me, and… always being there,” he said. “I know you told me you figured I’d have turned out okay whether you’d taken me in or not, but you’re wrong, Bruce.” He half-smiled. “…I need you, too.” 

I knew what I wanted to say, but couldn’t seem to find my voice to speak it, and so, I babbled some nothings. He gazed up at me serenely, seeming to perceive my thoughts. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he chuckled. 

I, feeling stupid, told him good night, and closed the door behind me. 

With my back to the door, I stood there for some time, haunted with visions of the horrible, erratic, phantasmagorical bumping and rolling of the dead girl’s severed capitulum across the wet tile to rest pitifully in the muddy grass, Dick’s thin, pale arm, bruised with the intrusion of too many needles, across my broad, uselessly strong chest, his form sprawled in the hospital bed. 

Finally, the sound of Alfred’s voice startled me out of the shaking, cyclical movie reel that had taken over my thoughts, and I snapped to.

“Master Bruce,” he said, “there is a visitor here to see you.”

“Not now, Alfred,” I sighed, passing a hand over my face.

“Forgive me, sir, but it is a young lady calling,” he said, his tone knowing. “A… Miss Al Ghul?”

I drew up short. “Talia? What is _she_ doing here?”

“That is anyone’s guess, sir,” said Alfred. “She is in the billiard room, waiting for you.”

Quelling all senses of shock and wishing that I had at least put some shoes on, I floated nervously into the billiard room, my mind somehow blank. I found it amusing that for the myriad of oozing, rabid monsters and psychotic criminal overlords I had faced and defeated in the past, I found Talia to be the most formidable force of all. Equally, I naturally put thought into my appearance prior to benefits, pitches, meetings, and so on, but at home, I shed these cares and generally was perfectly happy to walk about unkempt in ugly pajama pants and white, crew-neck undershirts. That night, feeling self-conscious with my smashed-in face, tousled hair, and stocking feet, I wished that I applied as much care to my off-hours wardrobe. 

I entered the billiard room, not entirely certain what to expect. It was nearing midnight. What Talia was doing here at that hour was beyond me; although, in truth, I wasn’t surprised. Talia had always operated on her own schedule and figured to hell with everyone else. 

As soon as I walked in, I huffed a sigh, and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” I said.

She chuckled. “You’re one to talk, Bruce Wayne.”

“Any idea what time it is?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I have. It is…” She twisted a slender wrist to check the face of her silver, pearl-laden watch. “Almost a quarter to twelve.” She lifted one thick, beautifully arched brow as she took in my appearance. “You look like hell, beloved.”

“Wish I could say the same about you,” I said, almost aggravated by how nice she, as always, looked. She tilted her head, blushing prettily, a smile playing with her full, petal-pink lips. She was casual by her standards, dressed in a white, rope-belted shift and patterned infinity scarf. Her dark tumble of gypsy curls fell over one slim shoulder. I became increasingly aware of the pain in my disfigured cheek. 

“You still have a strange way of delivering compliments,” she said fondly, her green eyes sparkling in the amber lamplight. 

I frowned. “Well, if I know you, you’re not here just to get indirectly complimented on how pretty you look,” I said. “So… spill. Why the visit?”

“Well, why don’t we start off with a drink?” she asked, sitting back. “I imagine there’s an awful lot to discuss here.”

I glowered at her. “I’ve had it up to my ass with discuss. What do you want?”

“To drink?” she said. “I’m feeling a little partial to a nice pale ale.”

I bit back a sigh. “All right,” I conceded. 

I normally abstain from alcohol, well aware of what sort of possibilities it could open up to a man such as myself, haunted by so many inner ghosts and with so many responsibilities. Coffee is generally my poison of choice. I have always, however, kept alcohol on hand, for the sake of appearances and guests, and that night, I decided that I was ready to shrug principle. I selected a pale, apricot beer, generally well-received by my various ephemeras, and split a bottle into two glasses. I handed one to her, perturbed when she, with blatant purpose, brushed her fingers over mine. 

I sat down in the green, leather recliner beside hers, and sipped at the ale, reaffirmed in my reasoning to avoid the stuff. It was delicious, with a light, crisp, sweet flavor, all too easy in which to drown my teeming emotions. 

“Well, I’ll ask again, except this time I’d like some real answers,” I said. “What do you want?”

“Actually, I have something for you,” she said, smiling. She reached into the handbag that rested against her chair, and pulled out an old, vintage LP.

“I’ll be damned,” I said, gaping at the record’s casing. It was none other than the original soundtrack to the film _Watership Down_ , the same movie, and book, that had carried me through the deaths of my parents. 

“I thought of you immediately upon finding this old record,” she said, smiling. “Shall we play it?”

I nodded, and taking it from her, put it on the record player in the corner of the room. I returned to my seat, and held my beer glass without drinking, listening for a moment to the music.

“So,” I said. “You came all this way to give me a record?”

She crossed a leg over the other, and eyed her beer. “Well, not exactly, no. I heard about Richard.”

I slammed my glass down on the endtable with a four-letter word. “How the hell did you hear about that?”

“News like this has a habit of traveling,” she said. “Don’t forget, my father has ears everywhere. It was bound to reach us sometime.”

I was silent as I picked up my beer, drained it, and sought another. Having refilled my glass, I sat heavily back down in the chair. 

“Bruce,” said Talia. “I am here because I want you to know that regardless of your almighty principles, I’ll happily grant you access to the Lazarus pits, should you desire to go that route.”

I shook my head. “I can’t, Talia.”

“Well, why not?” she asked, gazing at me. “Think what you will, but I promise you, when he walks out of that pool, Richard will be just the same as he was upon entering it. Save that he will be fully healthy, which I know is what you want.” She gave me a look that always reminded me of Jordan Baker, lifting her chin in such a way that a flute of champagne could have been balanced upon it. “And don’t think I don’t know you implored Lex Luthor for assistance. Surely, you are not so stupid as to fail to realize that he is likely well aware of your civilian _and_ vigilante identities.”

“I’m not that naïve, no,” I said.

“Then why not bring Richard to the pits?” she asked, leaning over the arm of her chair toward me. “It is no different than going to Luthor. And like I said, nothing about him will change— _he_ will remain the same.”

“No. No, he won’t,” I told her. “I know that you can see how it’s affected your father. You were aware of how it affected Hagen. But you haven’t been able to see how it’s affected you. Usage of that pit… It twists a person, from the inside out. People aren’t meant to use that resource for selfish gain, Talia. It comes with consequences.”

Her expression did not change. “This is hardly what one would call selfish, Bruce.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, sighing. “He told me himself, just today, that he’s done fighting. So… who would I really be doing this for? I know he’d like to be healthy again, or at least, I think so. But… if he’s really accepted the outcome… the only person I’d really be doing this for would be myself. Wouldn’t it?”

She laid her head on her curved hand. “I wish I understood what you meant when you said that I’ve been affected.”

I gave her a hard look. “It’s twisted you, Talia. Whether you realize it or not. You were never this ruthless ten years ago. Before the gunshot that landed you in that pit.”

Her eyes, inscrutable, held mine. “I have always been ruthless, my beloved Bruce Wayne. I have just not felt a desire to unleash that quality upon you.”

I snickered. “And I wish I understood what you meant when you said you didn’t want to get ruthless with me, my dear Talia Al Ghul.”

She sipped at her beer, turning her gaze from me. “Well. If you are truly so disinterested in the Lazarus pits, I suppose I can’t convince you to consider them.”

“Well,” I huffed, quaffing half the liquid in my glass. “I’m glad we finally understand each other.”

She looked over at me. “Where is Richard now?”

“Upstairs. In his old room.”

She gazed at the golden color of the ale she held. “I assume you’re taking care of him?”

I nodded, then emptied my glass. 

“That must be difficult.”

I left my chair to acquire a third bottle. I paused for a moment, considering, and loaded my arms with five more. By the time I returned, Talia’s expression had softened, and her eyes had warmed. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said, placing the bottles on the endtable. I sat down with a _whump_.

“Like what?” she asked. 

I didn’t speak. Instead, I popped the top off of a bottle with my bare hand, and drank greedily. In rapid succession, I polished off the remaining bottles that I had brought with me. Then, I stood, and replenished them. My head was beginning to feel suspended from my neck, floating up into the air like a balloon on a string, and my limbs seemed suddenly heavy, with a zero-gravity sensation about them. Talia frowned at me.

“I have never seen you drink so much so quickly,” she said. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen you drink at all.”

“First time for everything,” I told her. 

She placed her glass down on the table, and laid her elbows on her knees. She leaned in close to me. I stalwartly did not glance in her direction. 

“Bruce,” she said. “Talk to me.”

I heaved a sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

She laid a hand on mine. “Whatever you want.”

I stared at the pattern in the throw rug that covered the hard-wood floor as my fingers worked their way into hers, lacing together, and remaining there. The volley of words that I wished to speak, but feared to breathe life into, fought to be given that breath in such a clustered fury that, as I finally opened my mouth in an attempt to animate them, I failed to find any words at all, instead, licquiescing into tears. I dropped the beer onto the endtable, and pressed my face into my hand, striving to staunch the flow, but failing. All this time, I had not shed a single tear, and in that moment, it was as though every one that had struggled to gain access to freedom had built into a writhing, seething, massive whole, and now that fissures had finally sprung across my surface of calm, the pressure was too great, and it burst, unstoppable, through the blockade I had so carefully constructed. Talia, her hand still in mine, left her seat, and, kneeling before me, forcibly drew me close. I struggled at first, but in the end, I stopped fighting her, and, instead, clung to her as a drowning man does to a raft. The music from the record player filtered into my ears, mixed with the sound of my own discordant weeping. I prayed that the cell phone in my pocket would not buzz. The last thing Dick needed was to see me this way. 

I eventually became aware of Talia’s hands in my still-damp hair as she dropped kisses across my forehead, moving to my cheek, gentle around my injuries. Drawing back, her eyes glowed seafoam green in the warm light. She ran her fingers over my face, then, shifting her weight, touched her lips to mine. I pulled away, staying her motions with the palm of my hand.

“Talia,” I said, still crying, “your father—”

“Forget him,” she told me, pressing her forehead hard against my brow, “and everything else.”

Then, she kissed me again, with escalating fervor, and climbed atop me in the chair. With some abandon, I returned her touch, and for the next several hours, forgot. 

By the time it reached nearly four the following morning, she and I were sprawled on the floor of the billiard room, covered with a throw blanket, more for modesty’s sake than anything else. The humidity outside stubbornly clung even to the climate-controlled air inside the manor. I drifted in a state somewhere between sleeping and waking, the LP singing its way into my semi-dreams. I inwardly chuckled a little over the fact that if Dick did seek me out, he’d be the one finding me drunk and misbehaving. 

“Bruce,” Talia said, her head resting on my shoulder, her palm on my bare chest. 

“Hmm.”

“There might be one recourse left to you, that possibly you haven’t considered.”

“I’ve already looked into just about everything I can think of, Talia,” I murmured, still only half-conscious. “Shy of selling my soul to the devil.”

“Have you considered beseeching the Unseelie for assistance?”

Gaining wakefulness, I looked down at her. “Faeries? You are kidding, right?”

She rose up on her elbows, peering at me. “I am most certainly not. Believe what you will, but they are very, very real. And not in such a way as you might think.”

“What, they’re not like Tinkerbell?”

She shook her head. “After all you’ve seen, I refuse to believe you to be such a cynic. They are hardly like Tinkerbell. Many are as powerful as archangels… and some incomprehensibly more so. I believe quite strongly that even your Wonder Woman would quake in their presence.”

I snorted. “That’d be a sight.”

“I’m serious, Bruce. If you truly are desperate, possibly you ought to seek out the Sidhe. It is said that they love to bargain. If you are willing to pay their price…”

I stared at the ceiling fan as it turned languid circles overhead, casting shadows that played across the room. I didn’t know much about faeries or the Sidhe, and had certainly never entertained the possibility that they existed outside of folklore. Given the life that I had led, and the friendships that I held, I was fully open to the idea that they were as real as I was, but the idea that I could reach them, make some sort of Faustian pact with one of them, and potentially see Dick well again, was far more alien to me than, say, my working relationship with J’onn. 

“…I don’t know, Talia,” I said. 

“It’s just a thought,” she said. “And it’s a far more favorable choice than selling your soul to the devil. Last I checked, he is not so permissive or forgiving.”

“And the Sidhe are?”

Talia lay back down, her hair fanning out over my chest in a gleaming, rich, coffee-colored arch. 

“…Apparently, Queen Titania is benevolent. I’m less certain of Mab.”

I couldn’t help myself. I started to laugh. 

“Oh, don’t you _dare_ laugh,” said Talia, nudging me with her hand. “They’re quite real, I promise you…”

“Okay, okay,” I said, still laughing. “Well, how about I just go read _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_? Do some research?”

She gave me a put-out look, and I cupped the back of her head to pull her toward me. The sun had risen by the time she finally stole away, and I at last dropped off to sleep hard for a few hours. 

For the remainder of the day, I fought through my own doubts and shattering hangover, and sat at Dick’s bedside, maintaining my leave of absence and thumbing through different texts, papers, dissertations, and studies on the Sidhe and Unseelie lore on my tablet as he slept. I was astonished at how many existing tales of humans approaching the Fae for bargains materialized at my search, many of which were presented as urban legends, often localized to specific areas, leading me to believe that perhaps Talia was right—these myths might, indeed, have been grounded in truth. I, at last, permitted myself to glimpse one little spot of hope, although I knew that, according to my readings, I would have to implore the aid of a magic-user to lift the veil to the Unseelie lands to beseech either of the Sidhe queens. This could complicate things. 

The hospice nurses popped in early that morning armed with a whole new round of medications and detailings of the drugs’ purposes (many of which I was already comfortably familiar with), as well as to describe what they would be doing while in the house, their scheduled hours and what constituted such emergencies as to seek outside medical help, and finally how I could provide assistance. With that, they busied themselves, checking their charge’s vitals, administering his first dosages of these new medications, and seeing to some of the less pleasant caregiving tasks. Dick insisted that he could see himself to the bathroom and shower on his own, but the nurse, the older of the two, stood her ground and helped him off to the bathroom. After a time, he returned, apparently embarrassed, and when I asked after why, my assumptions were dashed when he said he never once in his life expected to need help just to make it to the toilet and take a shower. As the nurse joined up with her partner and headed off down the hall, and I helped him back into bed, it occurred to me that precious few of us ever truly does. So many things, each day, taken for granted. I sighed, and told him that I’d take over that responsibility from the nurses from that point on. He smiled, but shook his head. 

“No, that’s okay,” he told me, lying back into the pillows and pressing the cannula prongs into his nostrils. “It’s not going to get any easier from this point, you know.”

I nodded. “That’s right. And all the more reason for me to do it.”

“Okay, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I patted his arm. “I don’t mind.”

“What are you going to do about the League?” he asked suddenly.

“Shhh,” I admonished him, gesturing toward the door.

“It’s fine, they’re going over dietary with Alfred, they can’t hear us. Anyway. Darkseid’s set to invade pretty much any day now—what did the snitch say, the thirteenth of August?” I lifted a brow in askance at him. He smiled. “I’ve been keeping up with everything the best I can,” he explained. “…Did you know Raquel’s pregnant?”

“What?”

“Yeah, she’s due in February. It’s exactly why she was so miraculously available last night when you really had a serious crisis on your hands in Metropolis. But that’s one more member that can’t do battle, meaning they _really_ can’t afford to lose you right now.”

“My place is right here,” I said adamantly. 

Dick shook his head. “No, it’s not. You need to be out there, with them. You’ve got a world to save, old man. You can’t be worried about one person right now.”

In my fog of fatigue, pain and post-coital bliss, I said the stupidest thing imaginable.

“That one person _is_ the entire world to me, Richard,” I said. 

He looked over at me, and then, smiled. “Wow, Bruce.”

“Ahhh… That just kind of slipped out,” I said, rubbing the back of my aching neck. 

“Making me blush over here,” he said, his smile morphing into a grin. “Anyway. You need to rethink how you’re going to approach these next few weeks. If the League loses this battle because you sat it out…”

“Well, then they lose it. I’m not asking you to forgive me over this. Frankly, I don’t care if you do or not.”

“It’s not you I’d need to forgive,” he told me. “It’s myself. I’m the only one I have to thank for this, you know. And if my actions and decisions result in the League losing your help at the time they need it the most…” He looked away, and sighed. “Doesn’t even bear thinking about.”

I also heaved a sigh. It seemed the two of us had spent a good deal of time sighing in recent months. 

“I mean, you can make your own decisions,” said Dick. “Just… I’ve never seen you act this way before.”

“Act in what way?”

He shook his head. “Just… So unfocused. You’re slipping. And you need to stop it. This isn’t the time. Slip after Darkseid’s defeated. Not before.”

I quelled the rising anger that threatened to overtake my body and consciousness, and looked flat at him. 

“Listen, Dick. I understand that the League needs me right now,” I said. “But… so do you.”

He smiled, again, and took my hand in his. “Yeah. I do. But they need you more.”

I stared at the pattern in his bedsheets, recalling the day, all those years ago, that I took him to pick them out. I looked around at the walls in his room. The same posters, photos. Mathletes trophies. Gymnastics medals. He squeezed my hand.

“Like I told you last night, Bruce. It’s okay.”

“If you say so,” I sighed, running my free hand over my sore face. “Well, I can’t really deny that you might have a few valid points. _A few._ Valid points. But, before I quit neglecting the League…” I rose, withdrew my old, paperback copy of _Watership Down_ from where it rested on one of the bookshelves, and sat back down. “Remember when I gave you this?”

He nodded.

“I know you’re fully capable of reading on your own, but I _did_ hear you correctly when you said you’ve been having trouble concentrating, right?”

He half-smiled. “Chemo brain, yeah.”

“Well,” I cracked open the book, “then indulge me in treating you like a six-year-old and let’s re-read this thing together.”

He sat back, and rested his hands behind his head. “Hell yes.”

With that, I began to read, as he relaxed.

Mab stands before me, her arms now crossing still more tightly across her narrow chest. 

“If he has accepted his own fate,” she says, “possibly you would do well to respect his desire. You are not within your rights to control his destiny, young ones. If it is his choice, you must suffer it as such. Why do you believe that you have the prerogative to intercede?”

“Because, our own feelings aside, the _world_ needs him,” I say. “We fight a battle that is not so simple as to just fight it. We face a threat that is possibly beyond our collective power to combat, even now. And if we win in this battle, still more enemies will arise to take his place. All of us, across our world, need him.”

She tilts her head. “Did you not just inform me that you love this young man and wish to see him healthy because of that same love?”

I feel that I am in serious danger of losing my temper and lashing out at Mab in an attempt to coerce her into bargaining with us, rather than continue to allow her to run us in conversational circles. 

“Yes,” I tell Mab. “We do love him, and we do care for him, and we do want to see him healthy again as much for ourselves as we do for the world. But as I told you, Queen Mab, the world is as much in need of him as we are. Already our younger heroes have lost his guidance, and now they have lost further guidance from the one that we call Oracle. You must understand. We are losing aid to this illness at a time that we can least afford to spare it.”

“I can see into your hearts, you know,” she tells me icily. “I can see your true feelings. I know fully well that, although yes, the world might benefit superfluously from this young man’s assistance, _you_ would truly be the ones to benefit from his restoration. You wish him to be healed for your own sakes. You, sorceress, caster of inversed spells, calling herself Zatanna. Tell me. Does this Richard know what you attempted to do? Does he truly know what is in your heart?”

Zatanna flushes a little, but she steels herself, and lifts her head to meet Mab’s gaze directly. 

“The… full extent of it, no,” she says. “I have never been completely honest with him about my feelings.”

“For a great many reasons, I suspect,” Mab states. “Even now I feel the jealousy that burns deep within your heart. There is a part of you that keenly wishes that the one called Barbara was killed by the injury that took her legs from her.”

Zatanna looks up at her, eyes wide and horrified, and her jaw falls open.

“No—that’s not true, I _love_ Babs—”

“As does this Richard. And you resent her for it. You feel she stole his love from you.”

Zatanna’s eyes are now glittering and hard, and her jaw grinds like a millstone. 

“You underestimate and judge me a bit precipitously, Queen Mab,” she growls. “You do not know even _half_ the truth about me, or my feelings.”

“Zatanna,” I warn sharply.

“Let her speak,” Mab chides me. “Well, then. Enlighten me… Zatanna.”

“Of course I have moments when I’m jealous of Babs. Of course I have times when I wish Dick and I ended up together, but… We agreed that… although we’ll always love and care for one another… We just don’t have enough common interests to make it work in the long term. And that’s all right. I’ve accepted that. He’s a dear, dear friend to me, and I to him, and that’s _fine._ It’s all I ask.”

Mab, unexpectedly, smiles a little. “Very well, then.” She turns her gaze to me. “You, one who dons the mantle of the bat, your heart is full of so many emotions that you have taken and buried that it is almost overwhelming to look on, even for one such as myself. I do sympathize with your plight, but you must understand. This is a task that I simply cannot perform for you.”

“Why not?” I ask, my anger and impatience increasing. “Queen Mab, this will not only affect us. Should our enemy overtake our world, don’t think he won’t hesitate to move onto yours. He will eventually seek to take your sister’s lands, and yours, by force.”

Mab starts to laugh, a hearty belly laugh that I would never have expected from her.

“Let him come,” she giggles, holding her long hand over her mouth in a charmingly girlish gesture. “I have been in need of some exercise. I have not stretched my muscles to any efficacy in some time.” She extends her hands, and from one palm, a silvery flurry of ice crystals dances into the air, and from the other, little, swirling shadows, like black steam, rise to mingle with the sugary frost. “Ah… that feels so nice. It has been too long.”

“Can I bargain with you, here and now?” I ask, standing. My knees ache from being on them for so long. Zatanna, taking my cue, stands beside me. “You’ve not flexed your muscles, you say? Well, how about we flex them, here and now? We’ll fight, you and I. If I win, you be ready to deal. If I lose, we’ll accept your decision and leave this realm.”

“Oh, young mortal,” says Mab, a look of condescending pity in her eyes. “I will not accept such a challenge, if one might safely call it that. Such a fight would be so far from fair as to be laughable.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Queen Mab,” I snarl.

“Oh, I certainly would never dream of it, one who calls himself the Batman… but, that being said, I _will_ leave you to battle my champion, if you so desire.” When I nod my agreement, she looks over at Zatanna. “Do not forget, sorceress. You, too, have beseeched me. You are as involved in this as your compatriot here. So. Do not flee from your adversary when he is presented to the both of you.”

Zatanna glares at her. “I _never_ flee.”

Mab smiles in return. “You know, I grow fonder of you by the moment, child.” Her eyes level on me. “Now, have we a deal?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “The first of many, I am sure.”

“Oh, one can only hope.” She laughs her whimsical, melifluous laugh. “Very well. The deal is struck. But first, please. Finish your anecdote, young mortal. Curiosity abounds—what was the telling blow, that brought you here to me now?”

The time we spent reading _Watership Down_ I feel I can look back on, safely, as being good. Dick seemed tired, but in good spirits, and he admitted to me, mid-way through my recital, that he rather enjoyed being read to. So I moved onto, of all things, some Stephen King, and as I worked through reading these novels, I requested to end my leave of absence, and split my time caring for Dick with League assignments. These missions, that I balked at initially, were, in truth, blessings, in some ways. I found that, in spite of their chaotic nature, there was a sense of order about them, or maybe of routine, rather, that was comforting. It was also a comfort to learn that members of Young Justice had taken it upon themselves to frequent Wayne Mansion, going through “shifts,” as they called it, when I was sent out on the field or sucked into work at the office, so that Dick was never alone with hospice, and that Alfred was not expected to juggle the burden of his existing responsibilities with that of providing him with companionship and care. To be faced with Dick in the shape he was in was extremely difficult for some of the youths, particularly for Rose, but they to a member exhibited a good deal of fortitude, and approached him as though nothing was out of the ordinary. He expressed to me that he appreciated that they didn’t treat him differently, as he had feared they would early on. 

Some days passed, and as I began the first pages of _The Road,_ I noticed that Dick’s breathing had become strained and shallow, even with the assistance of the oxygen, and that his fists clenched handfuls of his sheets in spasmodic grips. His arms were tense at his sides. His face contorted beneath the droplets of sweat that had broken out over his skin. 

“Dick?” I said, concerned. I reached over to lay my wrist on his forehead. If anything, it was clammy and cold, laying my fear of a repeated neutropenic fever to rest. “You okay?”

“…Sorry,” he said tightly. “Just… really hurts.”

“All right, hang on,” I said. “Hospice is still here. I’ll see if they can get you some morphine or something.”

He vehemently shook his head. “No. No way. I do _not_ want to be drugged out of my mind. Not yet.”

“Dick, if it’s hurting that bad—”

He slapped a hand on my forearm, and his fingers dug sharply into my flesh, pressing all the way to the bone beneath. “I’m fine. I’ll be okay. Just… need to breathe through it.” 

“Dick…” I said. "You've been on pain-killers since you got out of the hospital. What's the big deal about switching to morphine?" 

His eyes, glassy and piercing, met mine. "Just... please," he said. "If I take it now... I don't know how long I'll hang on for."

I felt sick, all at once. “…Say the word if you change your mind.”

He nodded, his brows close together, his fingers still pressing hard into my arm. 

“Keep reading,” he hissed. 

I reopened the book, and picked up where we left off, trying to ignore the pressing urge to fix what was becoming a situation completely unfixable.

The following day, Barbara arrived at the mansion unannounced, with a sizeable bag, and pet carrier, in her lap. I assumed that she was taking her “shift” and had brought the cat with her for a visit, but was surprised when she told me that she had come without intending to return home. 

“Sorry, Bruce,” she said a little awkwardly. “I mean… I know I should have asked first. Or called. But… I was afraid you’d turn me out unless I just kind of showed up here.”

I frowned at her for a moment, taking in the sight of the cat, the pet that Dick had gotten for Babs not long after her injury. Even though it seemed cute enough, and I knew that Dick missed the cat, I really wasn’t sure how I felt about having an animal in the mansion. 

“Foxy’s litter-trained and a good cat. And Kaldur’s reassumed full leadership, before you ask,” she continued, lifting a conciliatory hand. “I know it’s been hard on the team, having dealt with so many shifts in leadership in such a short period of time, but… I need to be _here_. I just can’t lead them right now.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s okay, Barb. There’s really only so much I can do for him, in the end, and… I know Dick misses the cat, and wants you here. Just didn’t want to ask.”

“Well, I just had my boyfriend ditch me over this, so I should _hope_ he wants me here,” she chuckled.

I drew up a bit, uncertain of what to say. “Oh. Well… I’m sorry to hear that.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no need. It’s really for the best. He, uh…” She chuffed a laugh. “It just wasn't a good situation.”

“Oh?” I lifted my eyebrows. “Well, I guess… some sort of congratulations are in order, then?”

She smiled. “Yep. He was totally a rebound guy, anyway... Probably wasn’t fair to string him along.”

Together, we headed up the ramp that ran alongside the main stairwell (placed there for some of my guests that required it, Barbara included; it was far more easily accessed than the mansion's solo elevator), and entered Dick’s room. Even though he was pale and drawn, his face pinched with his continuing discomfort, he brightened perceptibly and smiled happily when he saw her. 

“Hi,” he said, working slowly to sit up a little. She wheeled over, and opened the pet carrier to allow the cat to hop onto his bed.

Dick’s joy in seeing the animal was infectious. He pulled the furry body close, cradling it in a big, poofy ball against his chest. Babs sat back, allowing him to be reunited with the cat. Then, taking his hand in hers, she dropped a kiss on his knuckle as the cat jumped off the bed to explore the room. 

“How’re you feeling, hero?” she asked, pushing his hair out of his eyes. 

“A little lousy,” he told her. “But… better now.”

Her cheeks colored a little, and she smiled at this. 

“So… Looks like a hospital-themed frat party in here. You boys been behaving?” she asked, turning her smile over to me.

“Depends on how you look at it,” I said, picking up the paperback copy of _The Road_. “Might not be the best reading material, under the circumstances. Oh, well. You like Cormac McCarthy?” 

She nodded. “Two-man book club?”

“It’s just the old man and the cancer kid at present,” said Dick, “but we’re looking to expand. You in?”

“All you need is the cripple… What a set. Yes, I am,” she said happily, and positioned her chair so that she could rest her head on Dick’s shoulder. 

“So… Where’s the boyfriend?” he asked.

“He’s… not really in the picture anymore,” she said, with a wink in my direction. 

“Oh, jeez. Well, uh… I’m sorry I’m not sorry?”

She laughed. “It’s really okay, Dick. To be totally honest, I’m not real sorry about it, either.” She nestled her face into his neck, scrunching up her nose as she smiled. “Mmmm… You smell like soap.”

He closed his eyes, smiling. “That’s a bad thing?”

“Are you done?” I asked, loudly snapping the spine on the book as I opened it. “Not to be a grumpy third wheel, here…”

Giggling a bit, they settled down, and I continued to read. 

From that moment, Babs never once left his side. Any care that she was capable of providing, she did. Her lasting presence also lifted Dick’s humor a good deal. Hospice even mentioned to me what a help she, and his friends taking their “shifts,” were to him, and, as such, to them, as well. And that is not to undermine the role of the cat—I came rather to like the animal, myself, and for Dick, she was clearly very therapeutic. Although a part of me did not wish to leave the manor, even in light of the overwhelming support, it became far easier to undergo my League duties, knowing that he was well looked after. 

As for my part, I retained all of the less pleasant and more physical responsibilities, as Babs encountered some difficulty when she attempted them, and Dick found it all insufferably embarrassing coming from nigh-strangers. It was foreign to me at first, but the actions of helping him to the toilet, cleaning him, getting him dressed, and dealing with other messy tasks quickly became routine and doldrummy for both of us. I continued to read to him. When home, and not attached to my laptop or tablet dealing with Wayne Enterprises dealings, I researched the Sidhe, quickly becoming disenchanted with the idea. It was heartbreaking to see that Dick’s already failing health was giving out, and giving out swiftly, but reading up on various rumored favors requested of mortals by the Sidhe over the centuries was a disconcerting venture that gave me serious pause. In spite of the benevolent reputation of the Good Folk, the bargains that they allegedly made were all too often dark in nature, and they have never been fond of dealing with Tire Breoites. I almost wondered if the Lazarus pits would be a better course of action, given that considering the alternative, Dick might, against his will, be forcibly removed from this realm to live as a Changeling (a human youth transformed into a half-blood Sidhe and forbidden from the mortal world) or a champion of one of the Faery Courts, no longer free to lead his own life in either case. I realized I might equally be coerced into the very same things, not to mention into exploits that would fly in the very face of every value that I swore to uphold, through the bargain that I would make. I was aware also that Dick would be shocked and distressed if he were to learn that I, knowing what these stakes were, offered a favor of any nature to otherworldy beings not well understood by our kind and all too powerful to trust, and that I did so for his sake. I set aside the idea with the awful feeling that all hope was, at last, spent, and watched, utterly powerless, as Dick rapidly began to slip away.

The duration of time that he held on after Babs came to the manor was all too brief, and the phase that followed passed in a horrible blur. Before even a week had gone by, he could no longer sit up on his own, his hands began to shake just with the effort of clasping his fingers around those of a visitor’s, and eventually, we were, all of us, forced to rely on M’gann to establish psychic links in order for him to communicate with us with any efficacy, as speaking required more strength than he had to expend. His body became locked in an endless battle with such pain that all too often left him in tears, twisting and moaning until his bed was a mass of soaked, wadded sheets. All through it, Babs, his teammates, and I sat beside him, providing him whatever comfort we could. Leaving him, even for short intervals, as he clutched my wrist and tried to breathe through the agony, was almost more than I could bring myself to do. I quickly ceased to find any refuge in field work.

One day, I could bear it no longer, and I entreated hospice to at least _try_ to do something for Dick, even though he still pleaded not to be overly medicated. The nurses talked over options with him, and capitalized on his first moment of pause and acquiescence, permitting him a dose of morphine. At long, long last, his muscles slowly unwound themselves from the tight, trembling slabs that they had become. After days of suffering so much that he had been unable even to sleep, he drifted off, slumbering so heavily that nothing roused him for nearly the entirety of the day. He did not resist the medication from that point.

I came home from field work bruised and exhausted very late that night, having regrettably gotten into a fist fight with Vandal Savage when bringing to his attention evidence that Darkseid sought to betray his apparent allies. We, the League, had hoped to potentially align ourselves briefly with the Light, given that it was their planet, too, that needed protection from Apokalips, but Savage had expressed nonchalance, and then, unblinking, attempted to have me killed. All in all, not a successful mission. 

Before heading to my own room upon arriving home, I looked in on Dick. Babs was still awake, seated in her chair, gazing steadily at him like a bespectacled stone guardian. His hand rested limp in hers. The television in the corner played a nature documentary _._

“Hey,” she said, not looking in my direction. 

“How was everything?” I asked. 

She shrugged, and looked down at her hand. I was surprised to see the engagement ring that Dick had given her again on her finger. 

“He came to for a little while,” she said, “and was _kind_ of lucid…” She turned her head to look at me. “But you know what he said?”

I shook my head. When I spoke, my voice sounded very tired. “I don’t know. What?”

“He said he understood me now. Why I broke up with him after…” She gestured toward her legs. “He said… he didn’t want me to change my mind now because of what’s happening to him. I didn’t know what to say. I literally couldn’t think of anything that I could possibly have said in response. And…” Her eyes watered, and a tear spilled down her cheek. She swiped at it angrily. “How could I have been so stupid, Bruce? I never should have ended it. I didn’t want to, not really. And now… all this time we’ve lost… just because I felt sorry for myself…”

I sighed heavily. “I don’t have any answers for you, Babs. No easy ones, anyway. The only thing I can really tell you is that you’re here, now, and that’s all you can do, and all that matters. Okay?”

She wiped her nose, and nodded. “Yeah.” She let out a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s okay. There’s a lot of this kind of thing floating around this house right about now.”

She smiled wetly. “The Watchtower, too. To quote Rose… Cancer is such an asshole.”

I nodded. “Yes, it is.” 

“Well. You look tired. Better go get some rest, you old bat.”

I left her to it, and after soaking in a bath full of epsom salts and touching up various cuts with antiseptic, I only fitfully half-slept, and finally gave up at close to 4. I headed out, instead, on a long run, with my headphones blaring music so loudly that my ears rang. I didn’t stop even after I had run the length of the roads through the woodlands and into the city, crossed the bridge, looped around the streets that lined the water, and turned around to traverse the length of the bridge again. I ran hard through the wooded streets, not even registering my cramping calves and aching shoulders. I made it back to the manor, doubled over in the driveway, and vomited into the grass that aligned the cobblestones. Finally, after I stood under a cold shower, I fell asleep, facedown, on my bed, and didn’t stir for nearly three hours. I awoke in a puddle of drool, entertained a moment to be grateful that at least Talia hadn’t slept over on that particular night, and returned to my foster son’s bedside.

Even though Dick was so heavily dosed on pain meds by now that he could barely string two words together and lay suspended in a drug-induced state of unconsciousness the majority of the time, probably exactly what he was attempting to avoid, I continued to read to him, and so did Babs. As time went by, we tried not to pay attention to his quickening decline; however, one terrible morning, it became clear that to ignore it would no longer be an affordable luxury. He awoke that day, and when I spoke to him, he stared blankly up at me, without even a glint of recognition in his diluted eyes. He did not respond in any manner to the sound of my voice. I watched in anguish, then, as he failed to recognize Babs, Zatanna, Kaldur, Conner, Artemis, M’gann, Alfred, anyone. Worse yet, during his waking moments he took to babbling occasionally; nonsensical, confused talk, often in varying languages, never quite constructing full sentences. Babs dissolved into gales of hysterical giggles when he started muttering in computer code. When she explained that the translation roughly resembled, “My other car is a rhinoceros,” she continued to laugh, and then abruptly degenerated into tears. M’gann, upon trying to link him to us psychically, sat down heavily on a chair after her attempt, and buried her face in her hands. After a moment, she said that his consciousness was too fragmented, and that she could no longer establish the link. That he did not remember my face or know my name, and that I could not even speak to him in a voice that he would recall or truly hear, wormed its way into my heart and rested there, devouring it from within, a vicious parasite. 

I had stupidly believed that he would have more time. Possibly I believed this because I did not wish to accept the alternative. But not even ten days had passed since the first of the advent of the real decline upon arriving home from the hospital scant weeks prior, and I had witnessed that much change in his situation. And not even ten days saw the morning that he would no longer wake up.

I was downstairs in the parlor, where I found myself half-listening to hospice as they discussed Dick’s decision to be listed as DNR, and half-listening to the clamoring inner workings of my own brain. I gritted my teeth as the nurses went over the ramifications of attempted resuscitation in the face of DNR, and also protocol following death. According to Dick’s will, he wished to be buried in the same plot as his parents. _No one’s getting buried,_ I thought resolutely. _No one. Especially not him. Not now. Not yet._

Then, with a screech over the mic, Babs screamed for us through the intercom, her voice shrill and loud, audibly panicked. We rushed in a collective mass upstairs into Dick’s room, and found Babs almost falling from the edge of her chair, sobbing over his prone, unmoving form in the bed. 

“Babs?” I hissed, dread turning my knees to grit as the nurses shouldered past me.

“He won’t wake up,” she cried. “I’ve tried _everything._ But he won’t wake up.”

I unceremoniously pushed her and the nurses aside, and attempted to rouse Dick myself. I spoke his name. I nudged him. I shouted his name. I shook him. I thrashed and screamed at him. He did not even stir. 

One of the nurses (incidentally named Robin) intervened, drawing me slowly away with a hand on my arm to lead me out into the hallway. 

“Just wait here, for one second,” she told me gently, and reentered the room. I was left trembling in the corridor, until Babs was wheeled out to wait with me.

Unsure of what else I ought to do, I laid a hand on her shoulder as she hunched over and wept without ceasing. Her fingers clutched hard at mine, and I kept my hand as steady and sure as I could. I had to hold it together, for her, and for everyone else. Alfred, hearing the commotion, arrived at my side, comforting me, as always, with his staid, secure, consistent presence. For as solid as he might have seemed, though—I could see, upon looking, the pain, and welling, in his eyes. That was a sight I could have done without. Alfred has always been the strong one. If he were to come apart, I had no idea what I would do.

Finally, the nurse came out into the hall, her expression grim. Seeing her face, my heart felt as though it had been ripped in two, falling, in pieces, into my stomach.

“Well,” said Robin, her voice soft, somber. “It probably won’t be long now.”

“…He’s still alive?” I asked, a wash of relief turning the grit in my knees to water.

She nodded. “He is, but… I really don’t think for much longer. You may want to start making the proper arrangements, you know, phone calls, that kind of thing. If you want to say your goodbyes, it’d be best to do it soon.”

“How much longer do you think he has?” I queried numbly.

She lifted a shoulder, tilting her head. “A day, maybe.” 

“Okay,” I told her. “…Okay.”

Robin sighed. “I know how hard this has been for you, but… He must have been ready. He really went downhill quick. Just like he said… he didn’t want to burden anyone.” She briefly clasped my wrist. “Still… It’s been so hard for all of us, I think. He’s such a sweet kid. What’s that saying…? Only the good die young.”

Babs, still crying, forcibly wheeled past her and back into Dick’s room at this, and I stood, my stomach churning.

“Well,” I told her. “…Thanks for everything.”

She nodded, and I set to the uncomfortable task of making the appropriate calls. I informed only the League, and Team. Given that the thirteenth was scant days away, they were on high-alert, and actively preparing for the invasion. Somewhere, in Dick’s mind, I’m sure he felt it was perfect timing for him to go.

That day was, and still is, one of the absolute worst in my memory. I sat in the parlor, robotically receiving guests. It seemed it was veritable a river of visitors that flowed in a neverending tide through the manor, as I fought my own screaming pain while Leaguers and Team members filtered in and out of the room to bid their farewells before it was over, and stand vigil until it, at last, was. 

Rose, in tears after visiting her mentor upstairs, reentered the parlor with Eddie at her elbow. I watched them as they spoke together in low voices, making their way across the breadth of the room, to sit on the piano stool in the corner. Their voices trailed off, and they ended up plunking out some half-hearted duets on the piano keys, providing a strangely beautiful, transcendent backdrop to the subdued scene in the manor. 

Zatanna entered the parlor, and approached me. 

“Bruce,” she whispered. “I know it doesn’t seem like it… But it _will_ be okay. It _will.”_

She peered down at me, her eyes dark, hazy, clouded, unreadable. She seemed inordinately distant, even detached. She looked very pretty, in a long, diaphanous black dress, red sandals, and red jewelry. Her wavy, ebony hair was feathered softly around her face. It struck me as odd—others of Dick’s visitors were in understated clothing and sporting puffy, red eyes and running noses. 

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

She gave me a half-smile, that seemed full of sorrow and regret; however, not in a way that suggested mere grief. I frowned, watching as she slowly made her way upstairs, and wondered at her seemingly strange behavior. I supposed there was no proper way to mourn a loved one, and dismissed my misgivings. I stared at my overlooked cup of coffee, by now gone tepid and bitter. 

I was surprised when Babs entered the parlor. I did not expect her to set even a toe outside of Dick’s room, even if Darkseid threw open his door and blasted an Omega Beam in her direction. She wore a confused expression. 

“Well, that was weird,” she muttered, resting a hand on her head. 

“What’s weird?” I queried, suddenly struck with disquiet. 

“Umm… Well, Zatanna pretty much just walked into Dick’s room and about shoved me and everyone else out the door.”

“What?” I asked, jumping to my feet, horror stealing into my lungs and stalling my breathing. 

“Yeah,” said Babs. “Not sure what she’s doing. Said she—”

Without a word, I sprinted up the stairs, nearly slipped on the floor taking the turn down the hall too sharply, and crashed into the door to Dick’s room. I was flung backwards from it to land on my seat in the middle of the hallway. Leaping up, I pounded on the door, which thrummed resonantly, obviously barricaded with magic.

“Zatanna!” I shouted as loudly as I could without alerting the guests. “Zatanna, open the door—now!”

I continued to pound, then raced downstairs, unceremoniously grabbed Kaldur from where he stood talking to Barry, and yanked him upstairs.

“Bruce, what is it?” he demanded, falling into pace beside me. 

“I need you to open the door, now,” I said breathlessly as we arrived at the door to Dick’s room. “Zatanna’s got it barricaded.” I inhaled, and looked hard at him. “You know what this means.”

He nodded gravely, and laying a palm on the paneling, whispered some words with which I was unfamiliar. Flashes of white light blinked from the cracks in the door frame, and in the spell’s faltering moment, Kaldur managed to kick the door open before the enchantment could rebuild itself. 

The suspicions that sent me speeding upstairs proved themselves to be well-founded when we both witnessed Zatanna, floating with her knees folded, at Dick’s bedside, her hand resting on his chest. Her lips moved, quietly reciting the inverse healing prayer. Her body was bathed in a peculiar, pale pink radiance—the light of her own spiritual essence, leaving her body. 

Kaldur rushed to her side, shaking her, without effect. I shouted her name, also to no avail. She was completely entranced. 

Kaldur’s eyes fell on the glass of water, long-forgotten, on Dick’s nightstand. He waved a hand, and the liquid splashed over Zatanna’s face. 

For one terrible nanosecond, it was uncertain as to whether or not it drew Zatanna out of her abstraction, but we both weakened with relief when she gasped a little, and fell to the floor as the spell was broken. She took in her surroundings for a moment, and saw Kaldur and me standing over her. I could already see that the spell had sapped some of her life’s crux; the color had gone from her face, and her eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed. She leapt to her feet, and shoved me, hard. When my weight refused to yield, she continued to strike at me. Zatanna has a comfortable defensive knowledge of martial arts, but she is, first and foremost, a magic caster, and in this moment, she was weakened, incensed and unthinkingly lashing out. I caught her hands, as gently as I could, and stilled her motions.

“Why would you _do_ that! Why!” she screeched, her hands shaking, her eyes livid and burning. She ripped her wrists from my grip. “You have _no_ idea what you’ve just done!”

“No, we _do_ , Zatanna,” said Kaldur, walking slowly, cautiously toward her. “We know all too well what we’ve just done. Forgive us. But we had no choice.”

“Yes, you did,” she said, advancing on him in her anger. “You could have let me make my own choice, Kaldur—in fact, you still very well can.”

I saw her lift a hand, and I knew she meant to magically throw us out in that moment. Kaldur raised his own hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Zatanna, be smart,” he said, before she or I could speak. “This house is full of people—non-League-affiliated people among them. Please. You must calm yourself.” 

“He’s right,” I said. “You need to take a step back. Why are you doing this?”

She gave me an incredulous look. “The only question anyone should be asking me is why didn’t I do this sooner.”

I shook my head. “You need to think of Richard, Zatanna. Don’t let your own feelings blind you to his.”

“My feelings are not blinding me,” she insisted. “I just… I can’t sit back and watch this happen any longer when I know that I’m the only one who can stop it.”

“I can stop it also,” said Kaldur. “I, too, am trained in the mystic arts. But, for as much as I wish to help him, I understand that such an action will have consequences—dire ones, for which I do not wish to be responsible.”

“What consequences, that he’ll live?” 

“He’ll never get past it, Zatanna,” I said. “He’ll never get over it. He’ll never forgive himself. He’s dealt with enough survivor’s guilt already. His parents. Jason. Tula. Wally. Babs, just over losing her legs. If you give your life so that he can live…” I shook my head. “Don’t do that to him.”

“Bruce,” said Zatanna. “I know it sounds terrible. But… I don’t care about any of that. I just want him to _live.”_

I nodded. “I know.”

“Zatanna, of course you do, we all do,” said Kaldur. “It has hurt all of us to witness his pain. But… We cannot control it. We cannot change it. And even if we could, which, in truth, you and I both are capable of… You have to consider every single person involved. Do not forget all of those who would mourn _your_ passing. Dick is not the least of them. And you are desperately needed in light of the invasion. You must not sell your life short like this.”

“Kaldur’s right,” I said.

Zatanna sat heavily down on the desk chair. “I just… knowing that I can do something… I can’t _not_ do it. He needs help, and it’s exactly the kind of help that I can give. So… I can’t just sit here… and _not_ give it to him. Can’t you understand?”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Dick muttered unexpectedly. We all, to an individual, drew up and jerked our heads to stare at him.

“Dick?” Zatanna rushed over to him. She laid a hand against his face, and repeated his name. 

“Don’t… don’t…” he murmured, then, his jaw went slack, and Zatanna stared down at him, shattered. 

“Dick?” she whispered. 

He did not respond, his face turned into her palm, his chest weakly and erratically swelling with his labored breathing. I watched Zatanna as she faltered, white-faced, and shaking. Tears streamed unnoticed down her cheeks.

I remembered Rose, crying into her wrist as Eddie supported her through the parlor. Conner, silently sitting with his hand on Wolf’s head. Barbara’s shoulder shaking beneath my grip as she wept. Garfield leaning against M’gann. Artemis sitting alone, without Wally to comfort her. Malcolm and Karen, realizing in silence that although they had moved their wedding to an earlier date, it wouldn’t be enough. 

All of them came to mind, flashes of their faces, expressions of their own mourning. When all was said and done, I knew that Dick wouldn’t have wanted this. Any of it.

“Kaldur,” I murmured, finally, after days and days of vacillating, reaching a decision. “Let me have a minute with her.”

He nodded, and looked at Zatanna. “Please, my friend. Remember what I said.”

She watched him leave, and when the door closed, I gave her a hard look.

“You don’t need to sell your life short,” I told her. “There’s still hope.”

She gestured at Dick, and gave me a heartrendingly despairing look. “How is there any hope here, Bruce?” 

“How familiar are you with the Sidhe?”

Her eyes widened. “You’re thinking of asking the _Sidhe_ for help?”

“Yes,” I said, holding a hand up to shush her. 

“Are you serious?”

“Try to keep your voice down. And yes, I couldn’t be more serious,” I murmured. “But I’ll need your help to open the way into the Unseelie realm.”

She nodded. “I… I can do that, yes. But—you need to understand, Bruce, I’m not nearly as familiar with the Sidhe as I could be, however, I _do_ know that these are some seriously dangerous beings. The power that they hold… If we’re found out, we could really face some severe consequences. We could be looking at dismissal from the League, when all is said and done.”

“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I said. “Anyway, Zatanna—I _have_ to know. We don’t have time for discussion. Are you in this or not?”

She nodded emphatically. “I’m in, of course I’m in.”

“Good. Zatanna… Thank you,” I said. “I know that the healing spell wasn’t completed, but how long before you have your full strength back?”

“Not long,” she said. “Maybe a few hours tops. I can still perform the spell to open the portal.”

I nodded. “How much time do you think you bought him?”

“Maybe a day.”

“Okay. And how long will you need to practice the spells necessary for this?”

“An hour, maybe,” she said, looking down at Dick. “But I’ll figure them out in twenty minutes if I have to.”

“Good,” I said. “Suit up and meet me in the Bat Cave in twenty minutes, then.”

Zatanna rested a hand on Dick’s chest a moment, as though to reassure herself that his heart continued to beat, then left the room. I watched her exit, then looked down at my foster son, lying completely still and silent, unwaking, unknowing, in his bed. Before I could talk myself out of it, I laid a hand against his face, drawing my thumb over the sharp contour of his cheekbone, and then ran my palm over his hair, long in some places, bristly and short in others. 

“You know I love you, Dick. And… couldn’t love any son more,” I murmured into the quiet of the room. “I know I should have said it a long time ago. I’m sorry.” His hair slipped through my fingers, and I sighed. “…Hang in there, just a little longer, for me, okay?”

I turned, and left the room. Entering the Bat Cave, I suited up, and met Zatanna at the Zeta Tube to Castlebar, Ireland. 

Mab nods, her eyes softening. “Well, what a horror for you and yours to experience, young mortal. It is… saddening, to know that so many of your kind suffer such an unspeakable evil. It is precisely why I am reticent with my ability to heal this Richard… I fear that I feel a strong desire to heal all who share in his circumstances.”

“Well, we bargained for it,” I remind her. “So if Zatanna and I defeat your champion, you’ll have to make a deal, whether your bothering with the rest is in the cards or not.”

She smiles, a charming, sweet smile that, again, surprises me. “Yes. Indeed I will. And… Well, I imagine that time is of the essence, so I shall leave you to the devices of my champion. Best of luck to you, young… heroes. I do pray that I will not be disappointed.”

“I promise you, Queen Mab, we’ve fought opponents that might give even this mysterious champion of yours pause,” I tell her. 

“Oh, dear one,” says Mab, almost sympathetically. “You truly haven’t the faintest idea.”

With that, she levitates gracefully into the air, her arms held out like those of an angel’s, and flutters over us like a particularly beautiful, ill-tempered patron saint. Zatanna and I gaze up at her as she hovers overhead, and then, we both start a little when the ground rattles under our feet.

We take some steps backward, watching as the snow beneath our feet bubbles and churns, spewing frozen rocks and dirt, an odd likeness of the boiling contents of a witch’s cauldron. At last, the creature that, by all evidence, is Mab’s champion breaks from beneath the surface, rising menacingly in a wash of steam and billowing snow. Dread is exuded from the champion’s very being as it stands before us, towering to a height of at least ten feet.

I am a little taken aback at what I see for a moment, as is Zatanna, who positively gawps at the creature before us. I had imagined that the champion of the Queen of Air and Darkness would be some sort of tall, slender, humanoid, sword-wielding male Sidhe, with pointed ears, elfin features and long, braided hair. Instead, I find myself face-to-face with a goat. 

Granted, not just any goat, but an absolutely enormous cinder block of one, standing upright on its two hindlegs, and gripping, in its opposable cloven front hooves, a two-headed battle axe easily as big as the door of a car. The gargantuan muscles beneath its coarse, gray fur ripple with power, its glowing red eyes burn and roll in their sockets, and puffs of steam billow from its burgeoning nostrils. As it huffs its breath threateningly at Zatanna and me, the strings of spittle that billow from its pebbly, black lips showcase the beast’s finger-long fangs. 

“Is he not magnificent? So few mortals are ever privileged to meet the _living_ Biggest Billy Goat Gruff!” Mab calls happily from above.

Zatanna and I exchange a look.

“Fan out,” I whisper, my words tight and uttered swiftly. “We’re in Talamh Reoite, frozen land—use fire spells, hit him with everything hot.”

“Got it,” she says, and leaping into a sprint, breaks off to the right. 

Also sprinting, I race off to the left, readying the explosive discs I carry in my utility belt. As Zatanna strikes Biggest Billy Goat Gruff with a spell of fire, I hurl the discs at him, and with the press of a button on a specific batarang, I let this fly as well. The goat, profoundly unaffected by the onslaught, twists deftly out of the way of the weapon, and it lodges in the frozen ground. The batarang beeps and lights up red, then detonates in a plume of smoke and heat. Zatanna, again, shrouds him in a curtain of fire. 

From our individual perspectives, we watch in shock as Biggest Billy Goat Gruff emerges, unscathed, from the network of flames, a sort of absurd cast extra in a testosterone flick. He whirls the axe in a couple of lazy circles, swirling the smoke from the depleting fire in little patterns. He advances on Zatanna, who shouts a spell to craft a barrier just before he swings the enormous axe to strike her. Had she not done so, she’d have been sliced in half, I realize, experiencing the first real surge of active fear since the fight started. With the barrier up, Zatanna is hurled a ways off like a bale of hay to land on her side in a splash of snow and ice. I’m already racing in her direction with my heat stick held ready. Before breaking off to check on Zatanna, I deal a blow to the side of the goat’s head with the baton, astonished when it seems to do nothing more than make him laugh, a shuddering, wheezing sound that reverberates through the air in almost concrete waves. With nimble, balletic turns of his hooves, he swipes the axe at me, causing me to tap into the deepest recesses of my own acrobatic pool as I work to evade the huge weapon. Somersaulting and then springing up to hit the ground at a dead sprint, I manage to put some distance between Biggest Billy Goat Gruff and myself. 

Zatanna is fine, a little winded, but none the worse for wear, apparently. She throws up spells of illusion and cloaking, and then turns to me. 

“Bats,” she whispers, “fire and heat aren’t doing anything to him. Any other suggestions? Earth, air? Possibly just brute force?”

Of all things, I’m mulling the old tale of the Three Billy Goats Gruff over in my mind, recalling that the setting was pastoral and warm. It occurs to me in an instant that the beast we face is actually, with each step, melting the snow and ice all around him, and that he is, first and foremost, a goat—a lover of warm, grassy areas. I have a moment during which I want to smack my head and say, “Hello, Bruce.” I’ve been spending too much time with M’gann. 

“It’s a goat,” I say, loading my voice with as much “hello, Bruce” as I can manage. “It’s not sensitive to heat.”

“Ugh, of _course_ not. It thrives on it!” Zatanna exclaims. She and I duck down beneath a wall of snow, even in spite of the cloaks and barriers, as Biggest Billy Goat Gruff meanders by, testing the air, swinging the axe. 

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, then. Ice spells. Cold spells. Water spells. Anything that will slow it down. The heat spells and heat weapons are only making it stronger.” We each hold our breath for a moment as Biggest Billy Goat Gruff wanders by us again, a little farther off this time, but still a little close for comfort. When he shambles away, I continue. “On my word, split off to the right. I’ll head to the left. I need you to encase us in a wall of ice large enough that we can still evade that axe, but cold enough that the ice will weaken him.”

She nods. “Be careful, Bats.”

“You, too.” I ready myself. “… _Now_.”

I break off, arching my path in a half-moon curve around the goat’s position. I hear Zatanna’s voice, vibrating through the air around us, and a dense, heavy sound of crackling and shifting fills the air. It is not unlike the sound of ice cubes splintering when struck with warmer liquid, only ear-splittlingly loud, and far mightier in nature. A satisfied smile fingers my lips as I see burgeoning blockades of ice emerging from the ground about us, encasing us in a shape like the mouth of a volcano. 

Biggest Billy Goat Gruff roars when he realizes that we’ve uncovered his secret weakness, and grips the axe with such force that the hilt splinters beneath his hooves. I’ve got an array of weapons that apply cryogenic technology, and I ready them now, prepared to hit the beast with every last one if need be. I become aware of Mab’s musical laughter, echoing all around us.

Zatanna levels on the goat a blaze of icy wind, and I charge up my own cryogenic generator and blast him with a spray of rapidly freezing chemicals. A layer of frost spreads out over Biggest Billy Goat Gruff’s coarse fur like the first sparkling of ice over a lake in early winter. In a rage, he plows toward me, an oversized, biped bull charging a matador, his hooves kicking up sprays of snow. I tuck and roll, then whirl to strike his semi-frozen shoulder with the flat of my arm. With continuous motion, I deliver a hard, well-landed tornado kick to his face. He stumbles a bit, but seems mostly unfazed, and so I drive my palm with all of my strength into his hairy chin. His head is hefted a little, and he takes a step back. I move to utilize the cryogenic generator, but I receive a solid whack with the hilt of his axe just before I can fire it. I land hard on my back, my legs flying up over my head. I continue the movement, extending it into a full tumble, until I’ve righted myself. I’ve barely risen when he lowers his behemoth, horned head, and butts me with such force that all in an instant I experience the disquieting soft, wet pops that indicate broken ribs, and all of the wind exits my lungs in a loud, violent huff. I’m hurled at least ten feet back, and roll for another ten at least when I strike the ground.

As I dizzily lift myself to my feet, it grows increasingly hard to draw in a breath, all signs of a pneumothorax. I swear, and reposition the cryogenic generator. Every movement hurts like hell and it won’t be long before I’m in serious oxygen debt, but I’ve dealt with worse injuries in battle, and I know I can go on. However, one more blow from those horns, and I could be looking at some truly debilitating injuries that might very well put me out of commission for months, or worse, finish me off. 

The huge, horned head lowers itself again, and the beast is on me in a breath, moving far faster than any animal of that size has any right to. Zatanna’s voice resounds through the stadium of ice that surrounds us, and the monster slows, his motions growing stunted and sluggish, before he can reach my already slower-moving, injured body. I see that his ankles have become encased in steadily growing shackles of ice, that reach up his burly legs and furl out in frosty plumes to join in the middle. Biggest Billy Goat Gruff roars in fury, and with a tremendous blow, shatters the ice with his axe. By now, I have placed myself some ways away, and I fire the cryogenic generator at him, aiming for his front hooves. Zatanna comes up beside me, laying a hand on my back as she watches the beast’s appendages quickly freeze beneath the icy blast. 

“Are you okay?” she hollers over the crackling hiss of the weapon.

“I’m fine,” I reply. “Keep attacking.”

She does, murmuring some words to sustain the shackles of ice on our opponent’s ankles. 

“Keep that spell up as long as you can, Zatanna,” I say, sheathing the generator. “Just try not to get me caught up in it.”

I bolt toward Biggest Billy Goat Gruff. He puts forth an intense effort, stiffly surging toward us, peeling his frozen knuckles away from the hilt of his axe, freeing them one by one. His feet move lethargically through the swiftly building bonds of ice, and I reach him first to unleash every last devastating maneuver I’ve learned from all of the venerable martial arts masters under whom I’ve trained throughout my life as the Batman. My years of training are validated when I disarm the beast, at last, of the impossibly huge battle axe. I turn over backward in a spring kick that is rather an invention of mine and Dick’s, inspired by several existing maneuvers, and also, humorously enough, by a move in a video game that he vastly enjoyed playing in his teens. Given that Zatanna’s ice covers his broad front, all the way up to his face, the jaw snaps easily beneath my heel, and he roars with pain and fury, ineffectively swiping his large front hooves at me as I hurl my weight into my fist to strike his broad, powerful chest. A rib for a rib. The plate of his sternum is broken like the stack of bricks I was taught to snap in training years ago. To finish the job, I drive my heel into the bones of his anterior-bent knee, bringing the big beast down in a pile. With more spoken words, Zatanna binds the creature in thick ropes, which, in spite of their size, would have been too weak to hold him for long during the battle itself. I struggle to draw in a comfortable breath, my chest stitched in sharp pain, and Zatanna lays a hand on my arm. I shrug her off, assuring her that I’m fine—which I am, just uncomfortable.

Mab floats back down to the ground and approaches us swiftly. She is smiling, a beautiful smile full of warmth and light that transforms her, somehow, from the icy, unapproachable Queen of Air and Darkness, into something amicable and kind. 

“I must say, I have never seen any being, mortal or otherwise, make such a quick job of Biggest Billy Goat Gruff,” she says incredulously. “How far you are willing to go in order to restore the health of your loved one…” 

She looks down at the goat, and her face grows concerned. 

“Oh, you poor creature,” she says. Laying a hand on his furry, horned head, a light pulsates from her fingers to flash through his body. The ice and frost vanish from his fur, and his jaw ceases to dangle, no longer broken. 

“I am sorry, my Queen,” says the goat, shocking us further still by his ability to speak. “I am most sorry.”

“Please, go and rest,” Mab tells him. “You fought bravely.”

“I underestimated my opponents,” Biggest Billy Goat Gruff mourns, “and I was defeated due to my own stupidity.”

“These two are certainly difficult to assess,” Mab says, smiling warmly at us. “Be not ashamed, my champion. They are unpredictable, indeed. You may be released from your duties to me, my dearest one. Go on… and be free.”

The goat, with a nasty look in our direction, stalks away, dragging his axe behind him. I look up at Mab.

“Well, we have a deal,” I say, my hand on my side, pressing against the broken ribs. Zatanna places a hand on my shoulder, looking askance at me. I ignore her. “Time for you to pay up.”

Mab tilts her head. “Pay up? I did not make a bargain to heal your son… I made a bargain to make a bargain to heal your son.”

“But you _will_ heal him,” Zatanna says forcefully.

“Of course I will. I stated that I would,” Mab says, smiling. “But you will owe me a favor, mortals, both of you.”

“Fine,” I say, cursing myself for my poor wording earlier. “What favor?”

“I am uncertain as to what I ought to ask of you, one who calls himself the Batman… but, young sorceress. I _do_ have a special task in mind for you.”

Zatanna nods. “All right. What is it?”

“I wish for you to be my emissary upon the mortal realm. It has been over a thousand years since I last was permitted to so much as set foot upon earthly soil, and I feel a longing to experience the life of mortals once again.”

“How do you wish to experience the life of mortals?”

“Any joy of the human existence that you wish to share with me, it is any and all of them in which I wish to partake,” Mab states. “As I have been willingly invited back into the mortal realm, I am, at long, long last, after so many years of waiting, permitted to leave Talamh Reoite. To feel the warmth of the sun once more… To feel earth and grass beneath my feet… to experience the pleasures of dancing and dining… It would bring me unparalleled joy.”

Zatanna smiles, a warm, happy smile, the first I’ve seen from her in months. “Well, that’s pretty doable. It will be my pleasure, Queen Mab.”

Mab beams at her, and then looks over at me with a thoughtful frown. 

“Having witnessed you in battle… I had briefly considered asking if you would take up the mantle of my champion in place of Biggest Billy Goat Gruff,” she says, “but I fear that you are rather like an old tree, deeply rooted and unbendable. As such, it does not behoove me to enlist your great many talents to my own ends. But… possibly… this young Richard might prove himself to be a meritable replacement, when he recovers.”

I frown, but nod. “He is capable. But then… so many other men and women in my realm are.”

She smiles. “We shall see, young one. But, please, I grow increasingly impatient to leave. Let us go, this instant. Oh, first things first…”

She lays icy fingertips on my temple, and a flash of the Zeta Tube openings inside the Bat Cave involuntarily is drawn to the forefront of my mind. 

“Wonderful,” says Mab, smiling excitedly. “What a _fascinating_ home you possess. Humankind has certainly progressed since I last walked amongst them… Possibly you might show this marvelous home of yours to me and share with me its wonders in the future.”

I am a little bowled over by this, but I nod, and she positively glows. Mab’s vibrant displays of interest and joy at the opportunity to leave Talamh Reoite alight in me an unexpected pang of sadness. While I understand the need to keep her incarcerated, never allowed free reign of either the Unseelie realm or mortal world, I feel a profound pity for this beautiful, terrible, powerful being. Mab, this force of nature born one with the air and shadows, and as free of spirit as the wind itself, now torturesomely bound in a frozen dungeon, surrounded by creatures of darkness, eternally awaiting the rarest invitation of a mortal to be permitted outside of her prison. I am aware that even though she will no longer be held within the confines of Talamh Reoite, she will be completely under my sway and Zatanna’s, and as such not truly free, as this Queen of Air and Darkness was so painfully obviously meant to be. 

But, rather like a dangerous animal, her freedom could very well spell disaster, I remind myself, and her only comings and goings from her penitentiary likely _should_ be entirely based upon my whims and those of Zatanna. 

Mab waves a hand, and the portal opens in a flash. It took Zatanna, a first-class magician, some minutes to construct the opening, and a good amount of study atop the years of training she already had. Likewise, she had to be in a specific area, surrounded by particular elements, to successfully conduct the incantation. For Mab, the spell seems to be cast with quite as much ease as blinking. As she inspects the portal, she seems afflicted with a disarming, childish excitement, that is remarkably infectious. Zatanna and I share a look, and together, the three of us step through the rift and into the Bat Cave. 

“If it’s possible, my Lady,” I say, struggling a bit with my collapsed lung, “it may be beneficial to all of us if you were to disguise yourself before we enter the manor.” 

Zatanna disappears into a changing room, stationed strategically near the Zeta Tubes. 

“Times have changed since I was last in the realm of mortals,” says Mab, her arms crossed and her brows drawn. “Tell me, what manner of attire is appropriate for one such as myself?”

Zatanna reenters, already having changed. _Magic…_ She runs a hand through her mussed hair. Mab studies her, and, lifting a hand in a movement reminiscent of those favored by figure skaters, a blurred swirl flurries about her form, and when the sight becomes again sharp, she wears a dress similar to Zatanna’s. It is, in fact, nearly identical, only Mab’s is lilac. Her hair is loosened from its plaited crown, and its platinum length falls in blue- and violet-streaked waves to her waist. 

“Will this do?” she queries, as I head off to a changing room. 

“It’ll have to,” I say through the door as I painfully unsuit. “Zatanna will be a better coach on how to fit in among mortal women than I will. For now, though, just try not to attract a lot of unnecessary attention.”

“I could veil her,” Zatanna suggests.

“Probably a good idea,” I say as I reenter.

Mab nods, then momentarily appraises me. 

“You are wounded,” she says, and lays a hand on my chest. A sensation of my entire chest cavity becoming flash-frozen unfurls from deep inside my body, and after a breathless moment and a heart-skip, the pain is gone, and my breathing comes with ease. I sigh with relief.

“Thank you,” I say, rubbing my chest where it formerly hurt. 

Mab smiles, and Zatanna throws up a veil to hide her from view. We exit the Bat Cave through its secret entrance from a lift that opens in a small, clandestine passage leading into the library, and quietly walk the corridors of the manor. Given that the library is on the top floor, we successfully bypass the thinning crowd of visitors downstairs. Once we reach Dick’s room, we open the door to lock eyes with his present attendants. 

“I hate to ask you this,” I say before anyone can speak, “but could you clear out for a few minutes?” 

I am aware of Mab’s presence at my shoulder, evidenced by the unearthly chill that she emanates and the sweet, crisp scent of frost that perpetually clings to her. Apparently, so is Diana. She frowns at me, her blue eyes narrowing. A shrewd, dangerous expression passes over her face.

“Cassie, Tim, Barbara,” she says quietly. “Leave us.”

I realize that we’re about to encounter some trouble, and so does Zatanna. We both shift, maneuvering our bodies protectively in front of Mab, and move out of the way of the door as Tim, Cassie and Babs exit the room, all of them looking askance at us. I keep my features carefully schooled, and do not acknowledge their inquisitive glances. When the door shuts behind them, Diana approaches us, her stance guarded.

“Do not believe that I am so untrained as to fail to recognize a cloaking spell,” she says. “Take it down, Zatanna. _Now.”_

Zatanna crosses her arms and knits her thick brows. “Sorry, Diana, I can’t do that.” 

“Do not force me to give you an order.”

“We’re off duty,” says Zatanna. “Meaning I wouldn’t have to follow it even if you did. This isn’t League business. It’s personal.”

“It is all right, young Zatanna,” Mab whispers. “You may remove the veil.”

Zatanna, with some hesitation, does, and Mab is revealed, standing behind us. She steps forward, forcing us aside. Diana’s jaw drops, and she levels on me a thunderstruck look.

“You _dare_ bring this _monster_ here? Bruce, Zatanna, what could you possibly have been _thinking_? You have no idea the atrocities of which she is capable! You could very well have doomed us all!” she bellows, positively shaking with anger. 

“I am delighted to see you, as well, dear Princess,” Mab says dryly. “Now, I have urgent business here, so if you could run along and play with your skipping rope, I would be forever in your debt.”

“Oh, we’ll play with my rope, _Mab,_ you and I both,” Diana snarls, producing, from within the folds of her civilian clothing, the Lasso of Truth. “Fancy a game of Truth and Lies, witch?”

Mab’s expression is inscrutable, although her eyes are cold enough that I believe they could easily ice the plains of Apokalips. “For too long have you beastly Amazons bullied my people and shadowed our affairs. And for _far_ too long have I wasted away in that prison, no small thanks to you.”

“If memory serves, you brought it upon yourself, Mab,” says Diana. “Do not expect sympathy from me. And you _will_ return to Talamh Reoite for your misdeeds, even if it means sending you back there myself.”

She swings the lasso in an arch of gold, and as Zatanna and I move to make an effort to break up the fight before it can begin, we’re instead absolutely floored by what we witness.

The lasso glares silver, transfigured in a blink into a solid rope of ice. Mab lowers her palm, and the lasso shatters to the ground in so many splinters of frost. All of these years I have regarded the Lasso of Truth as a kind of unstoppable force, and now, in not even the breadth of a second, it has been irreparably destroyed, and with a chilling ease. Diana, undeterred, rushes toward Mab, who twists away from her efforts to seize her, and, whirling, with a rapidly freezing hand, lifts Diana by her throat. The flesh beneath Mab’s fingers goes blue and cold, coated in little fractals of frost. The light in the room seems sucked into a vacuum, and the shadows grow and rile, gaining lives of their own. 

“I am hardly one of your slipshod Amazonian hedgewitches, Princess _,”_ Mab whispers. “Do not forget the havoc I once visited upon Themyscira. Or _why.”_

“I am… hard-pressed… to forget…” Diana gasps, clawing at Mab’s fingers. I take a step toward them, but Mab lifts her free hand, staying my movements.

“As are we, my kinfolk and I,” Mab says, not taking her eyes off of her captive. “Allow us to agree to disagree on this matter. But, perchance, you and I may come to an accord, here and now. I will rid this world of the enemy you face, this… Darkseid. And you, as well as your Amazon harlots, will damn well leave me be for as long as I am free to come and go from here, under the sway of these mortals, the Batman and the one called Zatanna, and you will speak of this to _no one_. Lest you forfeit your end of the bargain, an action which, as you know all too well, will be met with _severe_ consequences.”

“To make that bargain… depends entirely on what your intentions are,” Diana hisses, at last freeing herself from Mab’s icy grip. She lands heavily on her feet, and rubs at her throat and jaw, warming the flesh there. “I am not sure which of you is worse, Darkseid, or you, the Queen of Air and Darkness.”

There is a stare-down in the vein of the Old West between the two, as Zatanna and I stand there, wholly uncomfortable, feeling rather like children who have walked in on a parental tiff. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Zatanna finally says quietly. “But whether he’s conscious or not, I’m pretty sure that Dick, on some level, is aware of the tension in the room, and he doesn’t like it.”

She tilts her head toward Dick, whose breathing has quickened and wheezes in his lungs. Mab turns her eyes to Diana, and crosses her arms in a now-familiar gesture. The lamplight returns to its lucent glow.

“I am not free to act as I please, Princess,” she murmurs. “I could not do harm unto this world even if I willed it. Were I to actively disturb this realm, Titania would know, and I would be immediately thrown back into Talamh Reoite, no longer even granted the privilege of being permitted to exit under the sway of Bumblers.”

“You are unfamiliar with the enemy that we face, Mab. Do you truly feel you are capable of proving yourself to be more than merely a passing nuisance to Darkseid?” Diana demands, looking down angrily at the shattered remains of her lasso. “He’ll swat you aside like the obnoxious horsefly that you are.”

“Is that truly what you think?” Mab counters, also looking down pointedly at the splinters of ice. 

Diana glowers at her. “I think you are far more at risk of landing yourself in the hands of his Granny Goodness to be brainwashed into serving alongside his monstrous guard.”

Mab giggles hysterically, again covering her mouth. “Oh, Diana, my sweet, sweet, Amazonian Princess. You are so darling at times that I wish I could keep you.”

“He’ll break even you, Mab, mark my words,” says Diana, leaning toward her, her eyes burning.

Mab, unfazed, smiles serenely, her own eyes growing colder still. “We shall see, my sweet one. We shall see.”

“And if you _do_ lose this challenge?” Diana asks.

“Well,” says Mab, lazily creating little puffs of frost and shadow in the palm of her hand, “I suppose that you will find yourself free to harrass me while I sojourn in this realm, after all?”

“For no reason other than that I’d love to see you humbled and I’m benefited by either result—you have a deal,” Diana growls, then shoulders past me to leave the room. 

“Best return to Themyscira to replace your jump rope as soon as you are able,” Mab taunts, and then looks over at Zatanna and me. She grimaces prettily. “Birds of a feather pester me together. I trust that we will meet with no more interference?” 

Zatanna mutely nods, and I promise her that we will not. Mab steps gracefully over to Dick’s bedside, her arms folded as she looks over him.

“Well. Quite a nice-looking boy, as far as mortals go,” she murmurs thoughtfully. She reaches out to lay a hand on his head. “Oh. But so many shadows within…”

She notices that Zatanna and I are staring at her, wondering at this last, and Mab shakes her head.

“No, not shadows as in _evil_ , young mortals. That is not the darkness of which I speak. Rather… Well, _grief_ , perhaps, guilt, sadness, regret. Some uncertainty…” She closes her eyes, cupping Dick’s face between both of her palms. “And _so_ much pain,” Mab whispers, and I am surprised, once more, to see a tear trickle down the smooth, pale plane of her cheek. “So much… as to be overwhelming… even for one such as myself…” She clenches her jaw, cocking her head to the side, and then lays both hands, flat, with their fingers spread, on his chest. “Both of you, remain quiet.”

Zatanna’s hand finds its way into mine, gripping my fingers with tense anticipation, as we watch the scene unfold, bearing silent witness to the act of healing. I lose all traces of time and self, listening to the rich, deep sound of Mab’s voice as she chants, her tones low and soft.

A piercingly white light shimmers from Mab’s hands and flickers like a shifting star, extending each of its points over Dick’s body. It bathes him in its blinding radiance, the glow seeming to turn in graceful circles as it moves across and through him. Mab, all the while, stands steadily, her hands splayed out over his chest, her eyes closed. Her lips move as she continues to chant. Her hair dances in an unseen, unfelt wind. 

Unaware of the passing of time, I feel rather as though I have unintentionally stumbled upon someone else’s private dream, a moment of garish intimacy in which I was not meant to share or even lay eyes on. But, with an ebbing glitter, the light fades, dispelling the sensation. Mab, removing her hands from Dick’s chest, turns to me. 

“The seed has been planted,” she murmurs. 

Zatanna and I approach Dick’s bedside. Disquieted, I stare down at him, experiencing a momentary sense of betrayal. Apart from the fact that his color has returned somewhat, he looks just about as sick as he did a few weeks before. 

“I had considered restoring him to his former health, and, in fact, beyond,” Mab explains, “but such a swift volte-face in his condition might lead to unwanted questions and cause trouble for you later. Therefore, what I did, instead, was plant a seed. He will be healed, and make a full recovery before the falling of the leaves is upon you.”

I move toward him, but Mab lays a hand firmly on my arm. 

“Do not wake him,” she whispers. “I do not wish for him to witness me here this night. Speaking of such things that might cause trouble for you later… Rest assured, though, Bruce Wayne. He will live, and the evil that is this illness will never attack him again.”

I stare at her, still trying to absorb the idea that Dick’s battle has finally been won, and by Mab’s incredible dark miracle, rather than lost by death. This fight has been an integral part of my very existence for so long now that I am still programmed into responding to all outside stimuli as though it continues on. I rest a hand on his chest, my palm spread over the left pectoral, and I feel the drum of his heart, beating a steady, strong, sure report beneath my touch. His breath comes in a deep, easy rhythm, no longer squeezing its way into his lungs, dragged there with pain and labored effort. Overcome, I fall heavily to my knees, my hands involuntarily working in the fabric of Dick’s shirt. Zatanna comes to my side to lay a hand on my shoulder. Right now, I don’t give a damn what Mab will ask of me in return for what she has done.

“Bruce?”

I start at the sound of Dick’s voice, and I about fall flat on the seat of my jeans before I rise to my feet. He gives me a bemused look, his eyes—at last—alight in the glow from his bedside lamp. 

“Dick? How do you feel?” I ask, keeping my hand on his chest, feeling the vibrance that meets my palm.

“Um… I feel… _better_ ,” he says. “A _lot_ better. Which is… weird, right?”

Zatanna bursts into relieved, exuberant tears beside me, and Dick looks up at her in confusion. He reaches over to her and rests his hand on hers with a comforting squeeze. I check for Mab, and see the door to the hall as it swings closed. I allow myself a moment of relief, then return my thoughts to Dick. 

“What just happened? God, I had some _seriously_ weird dreams…” Dick slowly sits up. He’s barely made it into an upright position when Zatanna accosts him, gathering his thin body up in an embrace that audibly pops his joints. I’m shoved aside in the meelee, and Dick, chuckling a little, hugs Zatanna in return. 

“You really _are_ better…” she says gleefully, drawing back and, taking his face in both of hers, studying him. “Bruce, look. His color’s coming back and everything.”

“I see it,” I say, unable to withstand smiling. 

“What happened?” asks Dick. “Where’s Babs?”

“She’s downstairs. As for what happened… I know this might come as a bit… well, maybe a bit unexpected, but…” I formulate a reasonable story on the fly. “It was an experimental drug, Dick, drafted by a friend in recent weeks, specifically for our use. It was given to you over the course of a few days.”

Zatanna, who’s been eyeing me, relaxes, and turns to Dick. “You’ve been out for some time, but apparently it’s finally taken effect.”

“Feels like… like I about _died_ ,” he mutters, running a hand over his hair. He pulls the cannula out of his nostrils, and shakes his head, passing his hands over his face. “I mean, it _really_ feels like… I shouldn’t be here right now.”

“You very well almost _weren’t_ here right now,” I tell him. “It… really came all too close to that, Dick.”

Frowning, he draws in a breath, and releases it.

“Well, I know you said you feel better, but… How _much_ better are you feeling? Can you give it to me on a pain scale of say, one to ten, ten being the most uncomfortable?” I query.

“Umm… well, considering that for a while there I was kind of operating on upwards of a 25, I’d say I’m down to maybe an 8.6439?”

I smile. “So, not great… but all things considered, better.”

He nods, and lies back, closing his eyes. “Still kind of tired. Kind of… sore feeling. Stomach’s a little touchy. But… I can…” He cracks an eye open, and a grin breaks out over his face, transforming him in a flash from the ghoulish wraith that he has been for so much time back into the playful, even-tempered youth that I have always known him to be. “I can _breathe._ I know it sounds stupid, but… that’s a big deal for me right about now. And I’m not winded just from talking. Even _bigger_ deal.”

I nod. “I know it, Dick, trust me,” I tell him, my voice sobering without my intention. “I’m going to call Dr. Cross, and have him in to take a look at you in the morning, if he can manage it, okay?”

“Okay,” he says. “What’s going on with hospice? Do they know about this?”

I shake my head. “No, they don’t. But I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. Get some rest, all right?”

Dick looks up at me, and smiles. 

“So… this drug,” he says. “Were you supposed to use it?”

“Does that matter?”

“Probably,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering closed. “But… I know why you did it… and…”

Zatanna stands, and retreats from his bedside, almost respectfully. Dick’s hand closes over mine. 

“…I love you, too, old man,” he says.

I reach down, and no longer fettered by my own demons, I pull him close to me, and we stay there like that for a long, long time—long after Zatanna has withdrawn, long after the guests, at her behest, have filtered out of the manor, long after he drifts off to sleep against my shoulder. I finally lower him down, and keep my hand on his brow for a moment, listening to the reassuring sound of his rhythmic, stable breathing. At last, I gather myself, and exit the room to check on my unusual houseguest.

Mab and Zatanna sit together on the settee in the foyer, talking in low voices together. They each look up, seemingly caught in the midst of an intrigue, as I approach them.

“Sorry—this a hens only discussion?” I ask.

“Forgive me,” Mab says, rising gracefully. “I wish for you to take me to this Darkseid. Diana has made a deal with me, as you know, and I wish to uphold my end of the bargain, post-haste.”

Even for the ease that Mab displayed when confronted with Diana, one of the true heavy-hitters of the League, I find that I rather worry for her well-being when confronted with our as-yet unmatched enemy. Although it is possible to outthink the god-like tyrant, as Dick and I have proven in the past, Mab has no real strategic approach to this battle that I can see, other than to draw him out and throw down the gauntlet. Given the tremendous blessing with which she has gifted me and the massive debt that I owe her in return, I have no desire to witness her done any sort of harm, and a part of me fears that Darkseid will, as Diana said, break her. 

However, I also realize that several of my own affiliates do not always live up to their appearances; Black Canary, Kid Flash, and Beast Boy are prime examples. Even Ravager, for her unassuming stature and as raw and impulsive as she yet is, gives the best of opponents damn dangerous runs for their money in fights. Dick himself when terminally ill proved to remain a formidable force against our enemies. 

So, maybe I do Mab a serious injustice, and I, again, wonder if, over all of these years, I have learned nothing about my own allies and opponents. 

I sigh. “All right. We’ll take you.”

Mab has us Zeta Tube to Fairbanks, Alaska, then teleports us via magic to the northernmost end of the state, where she plans on drawing Darkseid out into the open. If there is one thing that I know about Darkseid, it is that he does not like to be challenged, and he particularly does not like to be questioned in any way. All signs of mutiny are quickly and sufficiently stamped out before their coals can even smolder. I round up Diana, just in case her presence is required to ensure that the deal is not forfeit, or cheated upon. She arrives as Wonder Woman, to all appearances deeply angered and disgruntled, and stands aside Zatanna as we form a semi-circle to Mab’s back at the epicenter of a deep valley, full of grasses, shrubs, wildflowers and small trees. Lining this valley are a great many conifers, leading up the base of the jagged, craggy mountains that surround us. The sky above is full of stars, shimmering beautifully overhead, an unlikely lovely setting for what is sure to be an ugly happening. 

Mab is no longer adorned in her “earthly” clothing; rather, she now dons armor that is visibly as effective as it is pleasing to look at. It is white, but reflects a boreal shade of blue beneath the starlight, and by the humming sound it generates when struck, it is flexible and strong. Her silver hair is plaited into a braid that distinctly resembles a mermaid’s tail, falling down her back like the extremity of a witch’s familiar, hiding beneath her helmet. I clench my teeth, and, using a communicator loaded with all of Dick’s hardy intrusion programs compatible with just about every single systems tech we’ve encountered in the universe thus far, I manage to raise Darkseid. 

“Look,” I say, talking over him even when he speaks to quiet me, “I have a third party here who wishes to challenge you. One on one. No army, no invasion. Just to do battle.”

“Who is this third party?” Darkseid asks in his deep, monotone voice. Nary a single inflection, or note of concern, has yet been heard from him. 

Mab turns, and gazes at me over her shoulder. She lifts a brow.

“Queen Mab, Ruler of Talamh Reoite,” I say into the communicator. For dramatic emphasis, I add, “The Queen of Air and Darkness.”

“The Queen of Air and Darkness,” Darkseid repeats. “What is her goal, human?”

“She made a deal with one of ours to rid our world of you,” I state. “If she does, your armies will also be beholden not to invade the earth, lest they suffer severe consequences at the hands of the Sidhe. Such is the nature of the bargain. And while I understand that your forces are quite venerable, allow me to inform you that so are theirs. In fact, quite possibly more so.”

“Humorous,” Darkseid says. “I have tracked your location. I will arrive within thirty seconds, by the earthly time stream.”

There is the rumbling incumbent upon the use of a Boom Tube, and from its mouth materializes the heavy, blockish form of Darkseid, and after his entrance, the forms of his female Guard. I had anticipated that he would not arrive unaccompanied, and I look to Zatanna and Wonder Woman. 

“We’ll take the Guard,” I murmur.

Wonder Woman nods. “Good. I have unfinished business with these mindless bawds.”

Zatanna produces her wand, something she reserves only for the most trying of battles. She stands, her arm to her side, the wand ready. Wonder Woman has apparently not replaced her enchanted lasso, and in its stead, she has brought a second sword. Always radiating intensity and power, she primes the blades. I position myself into a readied stance.

Mab stands in front of us, her posture relaxed and unconcerned, as Darkseid steps heavily toward her. His eyes gleam a demonic red in his lapidarian face, his slab-jaw set into a hard, square stone. Each footfall reverberates detectably through the ground, mass ripples in the earth. He crosses his bulky arms across his massive, craggy barrel of a chest, and from his impressive height, stares down at Mab as though she is little more than an insectile pest crawling about at his feet. 

Mab, for her part, seems unimpressed as she gazes up at him, her own arms crossed, mirroring his stance. Her head tilts to one side as she looks him up and down.

“So you are the one that they call Darkseid,” she says, her voice now pitched to the resonant, double-layered sound that we first heard her use in Talamh Reoite. 

“And you are the one that they call the Queen of Air and Darkness,” Darkseid replies. “And, while I am here, you may call me your new lord and master.”

“There is none that I would call my lord and master, least of all some insipid, slack-jawed beast such as yourself,” Mab says.

The Guard, to a member, growls with anger, and even my companions are a little astonished by Mab’s words. What is most surprising, to me, is the fact that there isn’t even the barest hint of baiting in her voice. 

Darkseid chuckles mirthlessly. “Tell me. What can you do?”

“I find that my unusual talents are capable of demonstrating themselves,” Mab says.

“Before this night is out, tiny moll,” says Darkseid, a reptilian smile spreading over his rocky features, “such an insignificant speck as yourself will worship me as _god_.”

Mab’s hands, at her sides, begin to twinkle with a pale violet light, icing up to her wrists. 

“I am rather put off by your belief that I will do anything of the sort, Darkseid,” she says, languidly trailing the icy clusters bursting from her fingers through the air. “Possibly it is time you are taught that you are no longer the biggest bully in all the land. You see… I am hardly what one might refer to as a 'tiny moll.'” Her back straightens, and she raises both blazing hands. “ _I am Mab.”_

“Guard,” Darkseid snarls, “be at the ready to stamp out this miserable rabble on my signal.” His eyes flicker, the tell-tale sign that he’s about to utilize his Omega Beam—a weapon that spells certain death for its targets. 

The red light of the beam blasts to a blinding flare. I block my eyes for a moment, overcome by its brilliance. When I look again, I see that the Omega Beam’s glare has flickered, and is fading rapidly into the night. Mab stands within the red glow, whole and unscathed, having gone completely to a sheet of black ice. She moves a hand, from which issues a gust of frost that unfurls into the air. The Omega Beam goes dark, and her form sheds its iciness. Darkseid smiles.

“Impressive. This is certainly the first successful counter to my Omega Beam,” he says. “But… as they say… luck always fades…”

“Luck, indeed. A single breath from my lungs will dispel even hellfire,” Mab says.

“And what of your brute strength?” 

Before Mab can reply, Darkseid leaps at her, astonished when she deftly twists away, levitating gracefully into the air. She thrusts a hand forward, and before I can so much as draw a breath, Darkseid’s entire lower body is encased in a solid sheet of smooth, flawless, blue ice, that holds even his colossal body captive and still. The darkness all around seems to deepen, even in the light of the stars, pressing down upon him like so many powerful arms. He hunches, struggling to remain upright beneath the pressure of the shadows.

“Well, clearly… I do not require brute strength,” Mab whispers, the coffin of ice rising past Darkseid’s belt. "Do I."

“Wipe them out,” he snarls as the Guard rushes to him. He waves a free hand at us, and in a flurry of blades, claws, and fists, they are upon us. 

I spring into action against the heaviest of the Guard, a titanic monument of a woman painted head-to-toe with runes and symbols, and dressed in leather armor. Her body is significantly impervious, and I am hard-pressed to impart much damage on her. When I poach a moment, I cover my fists in knuckles drafted of titanium, and, recalling my training in Tibet, I infuse every ounce of my own energy flow into my center to deliver the strongest blows possible. I have my hands full with this member of the Guard, who, apparently not even breaking a sweat, snatches me up by the ankle and hurls me—hard—against a rocky outcropping, then swipes me back up to chuck me right into Wonder Woman. Using her solid body as a base, I tuck into a full-in, full-out (thanks for the tip, Nightwing), and leap at the Guard again, mentally taking stock of the fact that Diana has already risen and is continuing in her own sword fight. I am unable to see Zatanna, and cannot keep up with Mab’s own battle. 

When out-classed, cheat. I throw a litter of explosive spheres to the ground, then tuck and roll to protect myself with my cape as they detonate beneath the Guard’s feet. She is blasted into the air, arching at about a twenty-degree angle, and lands in a rush of earth. I am upon her in an instant, this time bearing my staff, infused with enchanted stone from Thenagar, which I bring down directly onto the bridge of her nose with every bit of strength I can muster. When she moves to rise, I club her head to the side, and she, finally, lapses into unconsciousness. For how long, I can’t say, and so, I swiftly bind her in charged tethers. 

I fight to catch my breath, and realize that I am smashed to hell (again), that I am suffering symptoms of a concussion (again), and that my lung is collapsing (again.) Par for the course, naturally. I straighten, and check on my partners. Wonder Woman deals the final blow on her enemy, driving her knee into her face, and throwing her unconscious body aside. I rush to wrap the motionless form in the same charged tethers. Looking up, I watch as Zatanna binds her own opponent in a throng of living, venomous snakes, all of which sink their teeth into their captive to deliver non-fatal doses of poison. The serpents transfigure into solid, black ropes, cinching ever tighter, and the unfortunate sentry tumbles to the ground. The Guard now subdued, we look to Mab.

She remains suspended in the air above, disbanding Omega Beam blasts with as much ease as she might a few errant sparks from a fire. It is difficult to discern whether Darkseid is amused or frustrated by Mab’s apparent nonchalance, but it becomes clear very quickly that he is fighting, and fighting hard. 

With an angry sound, he leaps into the air, grasps her by her outstretched arms, and slams her to the ground. He closes a giant hand over her small throat, and Zatanna and I immediately move to offer her assistance.

“ _Don’t_ —if you interfere, the deal will automatically be forfeit and there will be hell to pay for _all_ of us,” Wonder Woman bellows, stopping our charge.

Darkseid smiles satisfactorily for only a heartbeat, then snarls when he discovers that his own arms will no longer move of their own accord—they have frosted over in a dusting of ice crystals that gleam silver and pink in the light from his angrily glittering eyes. Mab, with a duly satisfied half-smile, hurls him away from her, and, ascending like some dazzling, armored demon from a frozen hell to rise over her fiery demonic counterpart, brings her hands together like a maniac yogi, then spreads them, issuing a spray of frost that swifty freezes together in a mass of ice that rapidly overtakes Darkseid’s body. Unimpeded, it quickly consumes his legs, to hungrily continue up his torso, swallowing him all the way up to his neck. In the preternatural darkness, only the crystalline structure issues even the faintest resplendence, a dying star in the nothingness of space. Before Darkseid’s head is engulfed in the strangely beautiful, sparkling ice, reminiscent of so many heavenly bodies converging together in a flurry of frozen bursts of light, Mab stares down at him, her eyes glowing brightest silver-blue. There is a silence as the combatants regard each other, then the ice buries Darkseid’s face. Flashes of red burst against the solid rime, his Omega Beams vainly attempting to break through his prison of ice. 

Mab inspects her work, studying Darkseid’s frozen shape much as she would an ice sculpture that she has spent long hours laboring over, and we look on in amazement as the crimson bursts of light slowly, silently, twinkle and dim, at last burning out into darkness. The form of what was once our most-feared enemy now stands perfectly still, alight beneath the glittering of the stars, barely more than exactly what Mab seems to regard him as—an inanimate, non-threatening, fragile work of art. I stand guarded, waiting for those enormous, musclebound arms to crack through their icy bonds, and, once free, brace his vast weight as he incinerates us all. 

However, moments pass, evolving into minutes, as we, to an individual, gradually relax. With a wash over the landscape, the starlight overhead is restored as the shadows withdraw. Mab, with a sanguine smile, turns to Diana.

“I took a beautiful cue from my companions here. And… I believe that I have upheld my end of the bargain, Princess,” she says, her voice falsely pleasant. “Now, you must uphold yours… lest I am forced to remind you of the consequences, should you elect to forfeit a deal with the Sidhe once more.”

Diana, bristling, nods, her teeth grinding in her jaw. I make up my mind to research what the hell went on between the Unseelie and Themascyra that created so much bad blood between the two. However, my mind is still trying to wrap itself around the deathly _speed_ with which Mab effortlessly dispatched one of the most terrifying adversaries our world has yet known. I realize, with a sinking, sickening dread, that no matter what the bargain might be, I will _have_ to fulfill my end, or the penalties could, indeed, be more dire than my own imaginings might ever be capable of even hoping to suggest. 

“As for you, Zatanna,” says Mab. “Let us speak of happier things. Perchance you and I might frequent what is known as… The Movies, some day, impending soon? As you had previously mentioned?”

Zatanna looks discomfited and uncertain, as though mentally questioning what on earth (or elsewhere) it is we’ve gotten ourselves into, mixing with this terrifyingly strong, otherwordly entity, but she nods. “Yes, all right.”

“What’s _my_ end of the bargain?” I ask, just about ready to get it over with.

Mab studies me, looking me up and down, and crosses her arms. “I have not yet decided, young Breoite. I fear that it will take some time for me to formulate the best recourse regarding what I ought to do with you. Such a mysterious, complicated one you are… I have always held to the belief that Bumblers such as yourselves lead such sweet, simple, homogeneous lives. Possibly… You have proven me to be, at the least, misled, if not entirely mistaken. As you are aware, I am in need of a new champion, but you and I both know already that you are not at all fitted to the role. I had considered fulfilling our deal by taking Richard in your stead… but I believe him to be far too righteous of heart to withstand the nature of the tasks with which I would employ him, were he to find himself in my service.”

I nod. “He is _not_ the man for the job.”

“I agree. And, unlike my sisters, I am not in the habit of gathering earthly bairn, as they are called by our cousins to the east, to transfigure into Changelings and keep as my own.” She tilts her head. “No, for you… I must consider something else.”

“Something else,” I repeat. “Elucidate.”

She shakes her head. “I cannot. At least… not quite yet. Please, though, do not fret. I will forge something for you, eventually. Wait for me, one calls himself the Batman.” 

I look at the helpless, ice-shrouded cast of what was formerly our most formidable enemy, and then back at Mab. I catch myself, in the back of my mind, worrying about Dick, and then I realize, all over again, that I no longer need to allow these things to trouble me.

_He will get well. He’s recovering already._

And still, a part of me can't quite believe it.

I somehow regret Darkseid’s unfortunate fate, and as I gaze upon him, I remain intrinsically haunted by this penetrating image of his frozen form gleaming in the valley, a sort of victim of an icy Medusa. It is a sight that, I know, will follow me for the rest of my life, appearing, fragmented, in so many dreams and memories. Each snow that befalls Gotham will conjure the disquieting scene. And, in some ways, I feel that I am the only one who is truly responsible for this happenstance. I, who brought Mab out of Talamh Reoite in the first place. And I, who underestimated her power. How easily she subdued him, and reduced him to this—this frozen statue, a trophy of sorts. 

Mab raises a hand, and a tentacle of shadow boosts Darkseid’s immobile form gracefully into the air beside her as she rises into the sky. Waving the fingers of her free hand, she crafts ripples in the starscape overhead, and the portal opens to Talamh Reoite.

“Wait—Mab. Our enemy stays with us,” Diana snaps angrily.

“No,” Mab states, her voice, again, thunderous and double-layered in sound. “I should like to keep this body for myself. Consider it to be a part of my price for ridding your world of him.”

“You _never_ said that,” Diana hisses.

“You did not ask.” Gazing serenely down upon us, still clad in her white armor, she smiles benevolently. “I shall return, Breoites… Be ever watchful, for I arrive in my own time, for as long as you hold sway over me in this realm.”

We watch, completely at a loss, as she disappears with Darkseid. Diana turns to me.

“You allowed her to return to Talamh Reoite, with Darkseid as a hostage?” she asks me, incredulously.

“You made the bargain,” I remind her, looking up at the sky as the portal shimmers into the night overhead. “Apparently Mab believes that to keep Darkseid here will forfeit your end of things. I don’t know what happened in Themyscira, but I’m guessing it wasn’t good, and you’re not exactly gunning for a repeat.”

Diana nods. “Indeed. But, Batman, we can’t know that she won’t use Darkseid against us, should it ever suit her needs.”

Zatanna raises a hand. “If she’s as into bargaining as all of this, I can try dealing with her further, see if maybe I can keep Darkseid out of the equation. No offense or anything, but I think she likes me a little better than the both of you. Maybe I can reason with her, if it comes to that.”

“Hopefully that won’t be necessary,” I tell Zatanna. “But if it does come to that, for any of us—we’d do well to watch our wording.”

“She is a _demon_ , Batman,” Diana says, her voice low. “Do not forget that when she comes to you, seeking to collect her charge. You know not the price you pay for your great miracle. I can only hope that Nightwing will be as horrified as I, when he learns of your decision to beseech that monster’s help for his sake.”

I say nothing, and instead, return my gaze to the bound members of Darkseid’s Guard, that lie, struggling against their bonds amongst the wildflowers. 

Zatanna suddenly speaks up. “Don’t forget, Wonder Woman. Mab made you promise, as part of your bargain, to speak of this to no one.”

“I recall, Zatanna.”

“Just making sure. Don’t say anything to Nightwing.”

“I had no intention of doing so,” Diana says. “But such enormous secrets as this… They have a tendency to bring themselves into the light.”

“Well, if it comes out, it comes out,” I state simply. “I can’t really say I’m all that ashamed. At least… not yet.”

Diana gives me a dark look. “Give it time.”

I look away from her, and move to gather the fallen Guard. My companions assist me, and we Zeta Tube to the Watchtower, our prisoners in tow.

********

It’s difficult to believe that nearly thirteen years have passed since that night, seemingly as quickly as a single beat of my heart. My heart, that is no longer quite so broken. Standing atop the Wayne Enterprises office building, I look down on Gotham City, dusted with snow and decorated all over for the Christmas holidays, all too reminiscent of the days preceding that night in the alley. It hurts, as it always does, but I’m reminded, thinking on it, that I haven’t yet lost everything in this world. 

Although, how this world will rebound, or if it will at all, from what I am about to do, remains to be seen. I spent these twelve and-a-half years in a state of anticipation, waiting for Mab to collect on her dark favor, until I foolishly found myself entertaining the misguided possibility that, perhaps, she would never find a task befitting me, and my miracle, as priceless as it was, would come at no cost.

Such imprudent hopes, as I was all too aware, were laughably naïve. So, when she, at long, long last, came to me, the proverbial thief in the night, I steeled myself to what she would ask. I lay immobile, recovering from a vast collection of injuries acquired in a helicopter explosion, and upon her spoken request, I felt a nigh irresistible urge to rise on both of my broken legs and race across the earth, defying its gravitational pull, to plunge headlong off of its edge.

I had known, of course, going in, that her desire would be astronomical. Such a tremendous favor she did me could not have come without a correspondingly steep price. I spare a moment to be thankful that she, at least, did not take Dick from me, as she had considered early on, and equally, that she left my now eleven-year-old son, Damian, out of our bargain, as well. 

Dick will finally learn the ugly truth that surrounds his mysterious recovery, all those years ago, following my deeds tonight. I have readied some formidable counter-measures to my own impending actions, but God only knows if they will be enough to help us in the end. Adding to my burden is the fact that I will be forced, at last, to answer to the League for the dark miracle that I sought over a decade ago, and I know that to my face my foster son will be the hardest of all. I refuse to implicate Zatanna, and it is my hope that she will keep her own silence to protect herself. It was my choice, after all, seeking Mab. Diana, thankfully, is under oath never to speak of it, so I need not worry that she will reveal Zatanna’s role.

That being said, Diana will not have been mistaken about one thing—Dick will, with all likelihood, be horrified over this, and I am certain with me. It is my even greater fear that he will blame himself for the happening, and attempt to take responsibility for repairing all of the damage wrought. It will take concerted work to convince him that I, and I alone, am the only one who is truly responsible. 

Earlier this evening, I sent Damian to Bludhaven to patrol the streets for sniffs of Intergang with him, so I know that, at least for the time being, Dick will be kept busy with my headstrong son. I can only pray that the boy will not customarily attempt to be an instigator and bring to light what is my mission this night. Damian was informed of the bargain that I made with Mab barely some months after his arrival in Gotham City with his mother. Precious little escapes Talia’s attention regarding my doings, even those that are my most secret. At that, she was quick to call me out on the gravity of my feelings for my foster son when Damian complained to her about the “horrendous disrespect” with which Dick treated him upon their first meeting. To detail to Damian just how important Dick is to me, and, as such, to respect him as his honorary elder brother, was her absymally failed way of mediating the situation.

In spite of their inauspicious introduction, Dick set aside his own disapproval, sense of rivalry and irritation for my sake, and attempted some semblance of friendship with Damian, who was contemptuous and a bit of a bully at best, initially. However, before long, my son came to grudgingly tolerate his foster brother. And finally, after several months of remaining unperturbed, jovial and friendly even when Damian was pretty rotten to him, Dick won him over—somewhat. Any strains on their relationship aside, I know that Dick cares deeply about my son, his brother, and although he’ll never confess as much quite yet, Damian shares these same feelings. That only a few hours stood between the two of them never meeting certainly boggles the mind. 

It is evenly mindboggling that those same few hours spent in Talamh Reoite made all of the difference in so many other things. That Dick did, after all, run in Boston the very spring after his diagnosis (and finished before I did, much to my own chagrin), that Nightwing reemerged to guide Young Justice with Oracle and Aqualad through some truly difficult times. That he was there to see me through Jason’s tumultuous return. The wind pulls at my cape, shaking it wildly about my form where I stand, dwelling on these ostensibly routine occasions that I might not have been so blessed to bear witness to in the end. 

There is truth in the saying that a person should treasure the small things, because, in the end, they will come to light as the big things. All of those events aforementioned, and that my relationship with Dick altered subtly in the throes of his illness, might seem inconsequential, even standard, to some, but, to me, all of it, together, is far-reaching. 

Knowing this, armed with and bolstered by this same knowledge, I clench my teeth, let fly a grappling hook, and leap, headfirst, into the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to check out Part 2! ^_^ http://archiveofourown.org/works/2109789
> 
> A link to Part 3 will be included at the end of Part 2. :D


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